Wings and Things
by HosekiDragon
Summary: A collection of Destiel shots based around Castiel's wings. And what he and Dean do with them.
1. Song of the Soul

_Supernatural: Destiel One-shot. Based a bit on this wonderful thing h t t p : / / h o m o e r o t i c s . t u m b l r . c o m / p o s t / 3 5 8 8 4 1 0 4 9 0 / c a l l - o f - t h e - m a t i n g - c a s (remove spaces). Just took a slightly different approach.  
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**Song of the Soul**

The first time he'd met Castiel, there hadn't been anything.

Well, there had been something but it had been lost under the thunder and the shock and the disbelief. If he really, really thought about, Dean could scrounge up that memory and maybe, just a little, remember, very faintly, a light tinkling of silver bells.

But as the days, weeks, months had gone by he'd begun to notice it more. Whenever Castiel appeared, whenever he was around, the bells where there, faint, distance, almost too far away to hear. Then it wasn't just bells, there was humming too. Wordless, tuneless, yet somehow still beautiful humming that mixed with the bells and even though it was still too far away to clearly make out, there was something about it that sent tingles down Dean's spine. That's how he always knew that Cas was around.

And then they got louder.

Castiel would appear and the wordless, tuneless singing tangled with the silver bells would burst in his ears for what was an eternity of a second. And then it would be pushed back again, distant, too far away to clearly hear. In his head, Dean starts referring to it as "Cas' Song".

And he gets addicted to it.

He listens for it, finds himself thinking about it, feels a brief and unintentional burst of joy when when he hears it again. Sam can't hear it; he'd dropped half-hints about it and his brother would only make that befuddled expression of his and shake his head. It's a song that only Dean can hear.

And then Dean comes back from a hunt, all bloody, bruised, battered, limping and it's all Sam can do to help him get patched up. And of course they run out of bandages and Sam has to go run out for more. He doesn't want to but it's either that or makeshift ones from the motel bedsheets which probably wouldn't win them any smiles.

Dean lays sprawled across his bed, eyes closed, breathing slowly in and out, trying to make the pain in his butchered leg go away by thinking about something, anything else.

He thinks of Cas.

In an instant, the bells and singing are there and they are so _loud_. They bang against his eardrums and there's thunder now, passionate thunder, fervent wing beats, anxious drumming, all of it twisted together with the silver chimes and the wordless singing into a cacophony of noise that verges on the unpleasant. But it makes Dean's stomach hot and his mouth dry and his palms sweat and his spine tingle.

He lifts his head slightly and there's Castiel, standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at the bloody mess that's Dean's leg. Angry, worried blue eyes travel up from the leg to Dean's face.

"Turn your song down, Cas." Dean grunts and lets his head flop back.

"Song?" He can almost hear the head tilt.

"The bells," Dean mutters, staring through slitted eyes at the ceiling, "And the singing that doesn't have any words."

A heavy, heavy silence, Then there are warm hands-burning hands-on his ruined leg and he lets out a sharp gasp of pain. Heat and a blaze of light and suddenly the room's crowded by something too big to put a finger on.

"You can hear it."

Cas is sitting on the bed and Dean's leg doesn't hurt as much anymore. He sits up and looks down at it; there are still several cuts and bruises but he definitely won't have to amputate it anymore. He turns to Cas instead,

"What is it that I'm supposed to be hearing?"

"You called it my song." Castiel says, keeping his gaze locked tight with Dean's, "I had my suspicions that you could hear it for a while; the way you acted when I appeared was...but I didn't actually think it was you."

"Me what?"

"Dean, that song you're hearing is a mating call." Castiel replies and suddenly he's leaning in very, very close, "Angels only have one mate, one specific mate created for them, their soulmate. The soulmate is the only one who can hear the...the..." A slight frown, a pause as the word was sought, "The sound. I think it is unique to every angel but if you can hear it..."

"Wait, you're telling me that the bells, the singing, the thunder, and the drums...that's all because you're my one and only?"

Cas stares hard at Dean for a long moment and then nods, slowly, "Dean, I need you to tell me something."

"If you want me to profess my undying love for you, you can forget it. I don't do chick flick moments."

"No." Castiel stands and steps back from the bed, "I need you to tell me if you can see my wings."

And before Dean can protest there's a rumbling sound, large church bells ringing in the distance. There is a rush of wind and suddenly the motel room is flooded in light. And not gold-white light, it's a flurry of rainbows, dancing across the walls, reflecting off the metal bedposts, lighting up the room in every single color imaginable and every one beyond imagination.

And the _wings_.

Castiel's wings are the rainbows. The feathers burn in every color, a dazzling display, more light than actual feathers. They shift from fire-burnt orange to velvet burgundy to snake-eye emerald to sunrise lilac to the deepest ocean blue to wedding ring silver to so many colors that Dean couldn't comprehend them.

He simply remains frozen on the bed, staring with wide eyes, shocked, awed, dazzled, and completely and utterly speechless.

The tiniest of smiles creeps across Cas' face and he steps forward, towards the bed. A lamp is knocked to the floor by the his spread wings, light-feathers brush the ceiling and seem to leave behind trails of gorgeous, sparkling streams of silver and gold, the glow could light up the world. Castiel crawls onto the bed beside Dean, lying on his stomach, and his hand gently presses against Dean's shoulder, pulling him back down to the bed. Dean is still speechless but he reaches up a hand an lets his fingers trail through Castiel's impossibly gorgeous wings.

There's an electric tingle across his skin, like a static shock, the heat of a hot shower, of someone pressing close against your back, the liquid feeling of perfect white beach sand. And then Cas makes the most un-Castiel like sound Dean has ever heard. It's like a humming purr from the back of the angels throat and when Dean looks, Cas' eyes are closed and his face is pressed against the blankets. The eldest Winchester can't help the smile flitting across his features and he keeps running his fingers through and through and through the gorgeous feathers, enjoying the pleasurable feel of them across his skin.

Cas gets lazy and lets his wings droop. One of them dangles casually over the edge of the bed, spilling lights and gold dust and impossible rainbows across the floor and walls. The other stretches protectively across Dean. The feel of it across his bare chest is enough to make him sigh in pleasure. He can feel his injuries stitching together, healing Grace and light and, hell, _love_ pouring over his wounds and pulling him back together again. He ignores this, that's not important, he just knows that he wants Castiel. He brushes lights and feathers, fingers dancing through rainbows, and Cas' hands are doing some very un-angelic things across him and the silver bells and the singing and the drums are building around them like a cocoon of sound until Dean rolls over and plants a kiss firmly on Castiel's lips.

And when Sam comes back, that's how he finds them. Tangled on the bed, Dean's injuries completely healed, his fingers playing through the air and Castiel curled beside him, humming and making little pleasurable noises while his own hands explore Dean's chest in every why possible. Not to mention the kissing.

Sam can't see the wings but he knows they're there and, with a weary sigh, he backs out the door again because, really, he'd seen this coming from a mile away. All he could do now was prepare himself for the months of awkwardness to follow.


	2. Bed Hair

_Okay, so there's no wings but it's Destiel. So whatever._

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><p><strong>Bed Hair<strong>

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><p>He could feel someone's gaze on him, a hard stare that bore into the back of his neck and had pulled him gently from the depths of sleep.<p>

Dean remained sprawled beneath the blankets of the motel bed, slitted eyes watching Sam breath slowly in and out. His attention was, however, focused on whoever it was that was staring at him.

And he had a good idea who it was but he decided to wait and see.

A shuffling across the cheap motel carpet, a pause, and then a low creak as someone crawled slowly onto the bed. Dean had to fight to keep his breathing regular and the smile off his face. He could feel a warm body at his back, carefully not touching him, lingering just behind him, eyes still on him.

Just to mess around, Dean let out a sleepy sigh and shifted. The person behind him stiffened and pulled back. Dean pushed his face into the pillow and then stilled, still fighting the smile that wanted to creep over his features. It was a few moments before the someone worked up the courage to move closer again. A warm breath whispered across the back of Dean's neck and then, to the man's surprise, a few light fingers in his hair. He still didn't move.

The someone grew bolder and pressed their hand into Dean's scruffy hair, running through it once, twice, three times before pulling back. Fingers trailed down the back of his head, flitted down his neck, across his shoulder, rested lightly on the hand-shaped mark there, and then vanished.

"Cas...?" Dean grunted in the sleepiest manner he could muster.

A creak of old bed springs, a brief shuffle, the flutter of wings.

The space at his back got cold.

Dean rolled over, rubbed his eyes, and looked around. The motel room was empty except for himself and Sam.

"Castiel?" He said again in a low voice.

Nothing.

Frowning slightly, Dean rolled back, tugging the covers up to his neck, and pressed his face deeper into the pillow.

"You have bed hair."

"Holy shit!" Dean tore the blankets from the bed and sent both himself and the newly reappeared Castiel tumbling to the floor. Blankets tangled with arms, arms tangled with legs, and legs got lost somewhere in the mess of it all.

"Dean?" Sam gave a groggy snort, hand automatically flashing out from underneath his pillow holding a knife. It took him a moment to find his brother and when he did, he burst out laughing.

Dean and Castiel were tangled together on the floor, a mess of blankets, limbs, and trench coat. Dean was attempting to push Cas off of him while the angel was trying to worm his way out of the twisted blanket that had trapped them. The end result was that they became more trapped than before.

Sam slid out of bed, chuckling all the while, "You two need the room to yourself? I can go get us some breakfast if you want."

"Sam!" Dean shouted as his brother yanked on some clothes and headed for the door, "Sam, get back here! Sam!" Dean let out a wordless shout as the motel room door swung shut, Sam's laughter echoing behind him. After a long moment of glaring at the closed door, Dean relaxed and returned his gaze to Castiel.

"He took his time." The angel remarked, chest pressed against Dean's, "Do you think he is upset about being woken up?"

"Big deal if he is." Dean replied, smirking, "What's he going to do about it?"

Castiel tilted his head slightly, reached out, and ruffled his fingers through Dean's hair again, "You have terrible bed hair."

"You should see how messy yours is everyday." Dean shot back and then grinned, "Want to get out of this now?"

"No." Came the answer and Cas let his head drop onto Dean's chest with a light sigh, his fingers remaining in the other man's hair, "I don't mind."

"Me either." Dean said, dropping an arm across the angel's shoulders and looking lazily up at the ceiling,

"I don't mind at all."


	3. Untouchable

_Bam. More Destiel. Remember how everyone always said Lucifer bringing on the apocalypse was just him throwing a temper tantrum? Yeah, that's where this idea came from. Not one of my better shots, definitely a bit shoddy. *shrugs*  
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><p><strong>Untouchable<strong>

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><p>Angels are, by their very nature, aggressive lovers.<p>

Not to mention possessive.

And Castiel was very, very possessive.

So during the winter months, when Dean came down with a fever and was bedridden at Bobby's, it was natural that the angel wanted to help.

Sam and Bobby were not as willing.

"He's got to fight this fever on his own." Bobby explained to the angel sulking outside the warded bedroom, "That's how we humans build up immunities to disease. If you go in there and just take the fever away, his body won't be able to fight it if he catches it again! What doesn't kill ya' makes ya' stronger!"

Seeing that he was getting nowhere with Bobby, Cas turned to Dean's brother, "Sam. Let me in. I can heal Dean, you know that."

Sam just shook his head, "Sorry Castiel, I'm with Bobby on this one. Dean's strong but," A shrug of those broad shoulders, "This is a good thing. If he gets worse and we can't do anything for him, _then_ we'll let you in."

Silence as those blue eyes stared and then, "Can I at least see him?"

"Nu-uh." Bobby cut in before Sam could say a word, "I know your angel mojo works from a distance. You stay outside that room until Dean gets better, ya' hear?"

And then Castiel did something Sam had never seen him do.

He pouted.

Actually pouted.

The angel flitted down the stairs in a rush of wings and sulked in the kitchen, glaring angrily out the window and refusing to look at anyone. Sam and Bobby ignored him readily enough but it was harder to ignore the hot, presence of anger that was leaking from the angel's body like a heat wave.

After a few hours, Cas approached Sam, apparently calm and collected. At least the heat wave of nasty that had been radiating from him was gone.

"Sam," Castiel said in a flat, level voice, "Please let me heal Dean."

Sam shook his head, not quite holding the angel's gaze, "He's doing fine, Cas. His temperature's still too high to be safe but he's managed to get some water and food down so that's an improvement. As soon as his fever breaks, you can go see him."

Obviously not the answer that Castiel wanted to hear.

One by one, every lightbulb in the room shattered and when Sam whirled around to look, Castiel's expression was thundercloud black, his eyes burning angry lighting blue. Sam saw the angel drawing himself up, shoulders pushing back, fingers clenching into fists at his sides, and somehow knew what was coming.

A burst of desert hot wind tore through the room, sending up a hurricane of loose papers and other small objects. Sam felt as though the room had suddenly become crowded and realized that Castiel had manifested his wings to their fullest extent. Not the puffy, light-feathers that Dean had described to him, these were massive, Sam could feel them. It was like standing in a tiny space with the storm of the century.

Sparks arched from the sockets on the walls, spitting through the air, striking Castiel's wings and making them fizz, momentarily visible. Sam had the impression of a thousand stars compressed into a thousand galaxies all crowded into a super nova going off inside a black hole that was being swallowed by itself. The young Winchester stepped back until he bumped into the wall, pinned there by Cas' angry glare.

"Now, Cas, just calm down…"

"No." Screeching tires, shattering glass, thunder booming, stereo feedback, the earth cracking beneath your feet. It laced Cas' voice, barely there but there enough to make Sam wince and clap his hands over his ears.

And then the angel beat his wings.

When he pulled them back, it was like all the air had been sucked from the room and Sam dropped to his knees, gasping. And then, with a roar, Cas thrust his wings out again, invisible but powerful enough to crack the walls and send out a torrent of air so powerful it blew Sam back against the wall and tipped over the heavy desk piled high with books.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!"

Castiel's head snapped around and glared at Bobby and the man actually jerked back in surprise. Then, realizing what was really going on, stood his ground and spat out,

"You better get yer act together, mister, or you can forget about seeing Dean at all."

Cas froze. Sam could feel his wings poised, uncertain. And then they beat once more and even Bobby took a few, stumbling steps back,

"You can't stop me. I am an angel of the Lord."

"Wanna bet, ya' idgit!" Bobby shouted over the roaring wind, one hand clinging to the door frame, "You quit thrownin' yer goddamn temper tantrum this instant or you get out and you don't come back!"

Again the angel froze, muscles tense, veins popping in his neck. Those massive wings were shadowed against the ceiling, Sam could almost see their outline. And then thunder rumbled outside and shook the room and Castiel's expression darkened again.

"Stop me." The angel snarled and even Bobby cringed at the ear-splitting noises echoing in the background.

"Castiel!"

Everything stopped.

The wind seemed to halt in mid whirl, the roaring ceased, the wing beats stopped, and everyone turned to look up at the stairs. Dean was leaning over the banister, breathing in a shallow way, a sheen of sweat over his features.

"Cas," The eldest Winchester gasped, "Stop it."

Castiel stared at Dean, fists still clenched at his sides. And then, slowly, he relaxed. His fingers uncurled and his shoulders dropped. The giant presence in the room vanished and Sam let out a sigh of relief.

"Dean." Cas said, tilting his head slightly, "You're sick, you should be in bed."

"You woke me up, shithead." Dean muttered but there was a faint smile on his lips.

"I apologize."

"Apologize to Bobby too. And then clean this mess up."

Castiel hesitated, "But, Dean, you're sick and—."

"And you need to let the human body run its course." Dean ended the mumbled sentence with a hacking cough. Cas took a step forward but Sam beat him to it, wrapping one arm around his brother's shoulders and hoisting him back up the stairs.

"Oh, and Cas," The angel looked up at Dean, wearing an expression that said he hoped the man had changed his mind,

"The thunder and lightning wings…fuckin' sweet."

Castiel felt a burst of pride in his chest at the compliment that was quickly squashed as Sam led Dean out of sight and Bobby stepped into his line of vision.

"Well, go on." The older man waved his hands at Castiel, scowling, "You're gonna replace every single one of those goddamn lightbulbs, fix this mess, and then sit in a corner and think 'bout what you've done!"

Cas at first looked like he wanted to argue until he remembered Dean's own words and stepped back, dropping his head, "Very well."

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Bobby snorted, turning to leave the angel to his task, "Throwin' a goddamn celestial temper tantrum in my goddamn house. Damn angels. Damn kids. Damn idjits."

Castiel frowned at Bobby's retreating back as he bent over to straighten the desk his enormous wings had knocked over.

"I am _not_ a child."

The three humans begged to differ.


	4. Little Silver Bells

_A Destiel Christmas shot. May not be the last. …this is what I do on the way to school in the morning; write shoddy one shots. And I'm posting these now because if I don't then I'll forget. So happy holidays or whatever._

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><p><strong>Little Silver Bells<strong>

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><p>It was not the first time Castiel had wandered off but it was starting to get annoying. Sam and Dean had been wandering a mall, all decked out in festive Christmas decorations, with Castiel. The problem was, the angel seemed to be more apt to explore on his own than to stick with the Winchesters.<p>

"He was right next to me." Dean grumbled, glancing left and right through the swarms of people for the familiar trenchcoat and scruff of black hair, "I didn't even see him wander off!"

"Maybe he actually left." Sam suggested, easily seeing over the tops of most of the people.

"Nah, he's here." Dean muttered and his brother decided not to question it. Ever since Dean had started seeing Castiel's wings, things between the angel and the oldest Winchester had gotten…well, they had changed. Each seemed to know when the other was nearby without having to see them and there were times when Sam _swore_ they were having telepathic conversations simply by _staring_ at each other. But that might have just been him.

"There he is!" Dean pushed his way through the crowd and Sam followed after him with a sigh.

Castiel was standing quietly in front of a group of choir members, his head tilted slightly to one side as he listened to them sing and ring the large bells in their hands. A few of them were giving him disconcerted glances (they probably hadn't gotten this much attention while standing around a mall at Christmas) but for the most part they ignored Castiel and went right along with their business. Cas didn't seem to mind either way; his blue eyes were fixed on the swinging bells and he appeared almost hypnotized by the sound.

"Cas. Hey, Castiel!" Dean grabbed the angel's shoulder and spun him around, frowning, "Quit wandering off like that!"

"Sorry Dean." Cas said but his eyes drifted back to the bells. Dean shook his shoulder and Cas' attention shot back to him, "Sorry. It won't happen again."

"That's what you said the last three times." Dean grumbled, glancing at Sam for backup. Sam gave a quick, assertive nod, hands stuffed neutrally into the pockets of his coat. Dean returned his attention back to Castiel, "What's your problem, huh? I know Sammy's a giant but you've never been scared of him before."

"Shut up, Dean." Sam grumbled as his older brother laughed.

"I like the bells." Castiel murmured in reply, looking a little embarrassed.

"Yeah, I kind of got that impression since every time you've wandered off we've found you next to some." Dean gestured in an exaggerated way, "Do you want to leave? Is that it?"

"No." Castiel shuffled his shoulders and looked around so that he didn't have to look Dean in the eye.

"Hey," Dean's gruff tone became a little lighter and he pressed a hand against Cas' shoulder, "Is everything all right?"

"Yes." But Cas wasn't meeting Dean's gaze. He turned, pulling out of Dean's grasp, and stepped back into the flow of people moving through the mall. Dean and Sam jogged and jostled to catch up with him.

"What's his problem?" Dean frowned at Castiel's back, huffing as he stuffed his hands so deep into his coat pockets that his shoulders hunched.

Sam let out a snort of bemusement and Dean shot a glance at him, "Really, Dean, I can't believe you."

"What?"

"You seriously can't—there he goes again."

Dean shoved his way through a throng of giggling women to get to Castiel who was almost pressing his face against the window of a shop where a mechanical set of strings and pulleys were ringing little silver bells in a melody that couldn't be heard over the din of shoppers. He hovered at Cas' shoulder for a minute, and then gently pressed a hand in between the angel's shoulder blades, right in that sweet spot he knew Cas liked. Cas shuddered but didn't turn away from the bells.

"Cas?"

"Mm."

"Do you want to get that?"

"No." The answer came too quickly and Castiel jerked away from the window to walk stiffly back out into the crowd, leaving Dean's hand suspended in the air, growing cold without the angel's warmth.

"What the hell?" Dean looked around at Sam who had approached during the brief exchange, "What the _hell_ is going on with him!"

Sam just rolled his eyes, bent over, and whispered in Dean's ear.

"Oh." Dean said.

**_-Later, back at the motel…-_**

"Hey Cas, come 'ere."

Castiel looked up from the book he'd really been staring at rather than reading. Dean was lounging on his motel bed, propped against the pillows, wiggling a finger at him. Sam promptly smirked, rolled off his own bed, muttered something about getting a drink, and left the room.

Cas was across the room and on the bed beside Dean before the door had closed,

"Yes, Dean."

"So I heard you like bells."

Cas' blue eyes flitted to the blanket, back to Dean's face, and then to the blanket again, "Yes…"

"Like this?"

A beautiful tinkling sound filled the air and Castiel looked up to see Dean holding a small silver bell between them. He shook it and the sound came again. Cas shuddered on the bed, gaze following the swinging bell.

"So is that whole thing about angels getting their wings when bells ring true?"

"No. Yes. In a way." Castiel said distractedly.

Dean abruptly closed his fist over the bell, cutting of the sound, and pressed it into Cas's hand. As the angel leaned in to take it, Dean tightened his finger's around Castiel's hand, moved forward, and pressed his lips to Cas'. When he finally pulled back, he took the bell with him and Cas made an impatient noise. It was the noise that always made Dean smile, eyes crinkling at the edges, lips pulling back to show his teeth in a friendly manner.

"This one's mine." He said slyly and then pulled another from seemingly nowhere, pushing that one into Cas' hand instead, "That one's for you." He rang his bell, still smiling.

Cas trembled at the sound and Dean rang the bell again. Then, with a rush of warm air, Castiel's wings burst into being. Lights blazed gold and silver and white and everything in between, lighting up the room. The colors danced in Dean's eyes as he gazed up at the light-feathers stretching towards the ceiling.

"It's true," Castiel murmured, pressing against Dean, burying his face into the crook of Dean's neck, "In a way. Silver bells resonate with our Grace and…and…" It took him a minute to find the word he wanted, "Thrill us. Our wings manifest because—."

"Because you like it." Dean already had his hand at Cas' back, fingers rubbing circles amongst the small light feathers where the wings erupted from the angel's back.

"Because we like it." Castiel confirmed, breathing hissing through his teeth as Dean massaged the sweet spot, "Dean, ring the bell again."

When Sam finally returned, the room was mostly silent. Cas was curled up in Dean's arms, eyes closed for the benefit of the Winchester's but not really asleep. Dean's breathing was steady, one arm wrapped around Castiel's back to rest across the shoulder blades, the other simply draped across the angels side.

Every time Dean took a breath, the bell still tangled in the fingers of one hand rang once; a clear, single note ringing purely through the room.

Something in the air gave the impression of rainbows after a rainstorm.


	5. Topping

_And one more Christmas shot before I vanish for the holidays._

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><p><strong>Topping<strong>

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><p>Castiel has never decorated a tree before.<p>

He has watched humans from Heaven, he's watched them set up the tree and cover it in lights and glass and plastic and shiny strands but has never done it himself. He's actually not sure what the ritual is supposed to accomplish. His brothers and sisters often called it pagan and scoffed at it but to Castiel, it had been an interesting festivity and so he had continued to watch.

And now he was involved.

He sniffed and the sharp scent of pine stung his nose, made him sneeze. Dean laughed. Cas frowned at him, still holding the small, rectangular box that Sam had presented him with.

"You can set that down, Cas, we put the tree topper on last." Dean said from where he was hanging little red and green balls all over the fir tree. Sam had already wrapped the plant in multi-colored lights and that blinked and winked in a merry sort of way.

Castiel cocked his head slightly and set the box on the motel bed, "What is the point of a Christmas tree?"

Dean and Sam stared at him.

"Uuuhh, to decorate." Dean answered with a snort, "And celebrate Christmas, duh." The oldest Winchester stepped back, dusting his hands off with a nod of satisfaction, "Well, looks like that covers that. Cas, toss me the box."

Castiel picked up the box and handed it to Dean who pried open the cardboard, pulled out whatever was inside, and passed it on to Sam. The younger brother reached up and shoved the mysterious "tree topper" onto the top of the Christmas tree before stepping back to stand proudly next to his brother.

Moving up to stand beside them, Cas titled his head back to look at the object on the top of the tree. He stared at it silently for a moment and then a deep frown creased his features,

"I don't like it."

Sam looked like a cross between crest-fallen and bemused and Dean simply threw his head back and laughed. Castiel turned to glare at him,

"It's not funny, Dean. It's a misrepresentation of myself and my family."

This only seemed to make Dean laugh harder, doubling over in gales of laughter, arms wrapped around his middle. Sam simply sighed in exasperation and shrugged apologetically at Cas.

"Dean, please stop laughing." The older Winchester only flopped back onto his bed, still howling with mirth, "Dean. Dean, it is not funny. Dean."

It took a couple of moments but Dean finally managed to get a hold of himself enough to sit up, rub the tears from his eyes, and smile warmly at Castiel,

"Sorry, Cas, I just couldn't pass it up."

Castiel turned to glare at the _thing_ on top of the tree. An "angel" with ivory skin, flowing golden hair, a long robe of white, gold, and crimson, a harp, a silly halo, and a ridiculous pair of poofy white wings looked down from the top of the tree with a forgiving smile.

Cas loathed it in a way he loathed very few things.

When the Winchester's awoke the next morning, the tree topper was gone and Cas was playing innocent as to its whereabouts. Both brothers were extremely suspicious and these feelings were confirmed when Sam found a pile of ashes outside the motel room with the twisted, half-melted metal of what had once been a small harp.

Dean was careful with his angel jokes for the next couple of days.


	6. Mechanics Don't Date Nerds

_I lied. One more before I go away for the holidays. I was just going to leave you with the Christmas shots bbuuuuttt I kinda like this one.  
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_College!AU because I want to do pointless, angsty back stories and symbolism. And apparently whatever college they go to offers EVERY DEGREE EVER KNOWN TO MAN. Don't ask, I don't know._

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><p><strong>Mechanics Don't Date Nerds<strong>

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><p>It was cheaper to share a three-room apartment two blocks away than to rent one of the two bedroom dorm rooms on the college campus. So that's what the Winchester brothers did, it was simply a manner of finding a third.<p>

And that was how they met Castiel Novak.

He was an art student, always carrying around a bent and well-loved sketch book with a pencil stuck in the spiral, his dark hair ruffled like he couldn't be bothered to fix it up in the morning. He mostly kept to himself, something that Sam and Dean didn't mind as they were bust with their own degrees (mechanical engineer for Dean, lawyer for Sam).

But Dean couldn't help but notice Castiel.

The guy had all these little movements, all these little quirks that Dean normally would have found completely annoying but instead found somewhat…cute. Castiel never wore a matching pair of socks ("Bad luck." He'd said when Dean had pointed it out), if he wore a tie it was always backwards, and the guy had a ridiculous love of trenchcoats. Dean would curl on the couch with a text book in front of his face, peeking over the top when he thought Castiel wasn't looking, watching the curve of Castiel's back when he bent over the fridge, the way those careful fingers made the pencil fly across the paper, the way those blue eyes seemed to pick out every detail in the space of a second.

But an art student? Really?

It was common knowledge that Dean swung both ways and no one paid it much heed. But a mechanic did not date an art student. That was like…like a wolf dating a rabbit or something equally messed up.

Besides, Castiel was a _nerd_. He practically obsessed over that _Doctor__Who_ show. He even got along with Sam when the two started going on and on about myths and lore and legends and all that. Dean stayed well hidden behind his books when this sort of thing started, pretending he wasn't jealous of Castiel's attention being focused on Sam and that he _certainly_ wasn't occasionally glancing up to watch the way Castiel's lips moved.

This went on for a quite a while until one night when Dean found himself alone in the apartment with Castiel. Sam had left to pick up some new books with his other "lawyer buddies" and Dean had the living room to himself. Castiel was in his bedroom, the door slightly cracked. Dean could hear something that sounded suspiciously like "Mumford and Sons" or, Heaven forbid, "Elton John" coming from the bedroom. He wrinkled his nose, slumped down on the couch, and tried to finish the diagram of the '67 Chevy Impala engine he was supposed to be doing for extra credit.

After a while, the music stopped, the door creaked, and Castiel padded into the kitchen, which was a whole five steps from the living room. Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye. Castiel opened one of the cupboards, standing on his tip toes to reach the box of hotpockets Sam had tried in vain to keep out of his reach. Dean's gaze swept along the length of Castiel's arm and lingered on the arch of the other man's back. Then Castiel turned around and Dean hurriedly buried himself in his studies.

He listened as Castiel went about making his dinner, his ears seeming to fine tune to particular sounds. Like Castiel's fingers brushing across the counter surface (_fingers __brushing __through __hair__ running__ along__ skin__ caressing__ shoulders_), the gentle patter of the man's bare feet on the linoleum (_toes__ curled__ around__ bed__sheets __legs __tangled__ together__ thighs__ pressing_), the sharp hiss of breath as he pulled the still steaming hotpocket from the microwave (_breath__ caught__ between __lips __air __gasping__ pleasure __flitting __across__ neck__ skin __touch_).

Dean knew his face was inches away from turning red because his neck felt hot and he jumped a little when he heard Castiel take the seat on the couch beside him, leaving that middle cushion free as was the social norm (_wish__ it __wasn__'__t_). Then the television came on and Dean realized what time it was. _Doctor__Who_ time.

"Watching your geek show again, Cas?" He heard his voice say (_stop __pushing __him__ away__ want __to __feel __those __fingers __on __skin __lips __on __cheek __neck __arm __chest_).

"Yes." Came the soft reply. Dean's the only one who called him 'Cas', "Is it disturbing your studying?"

"No." Dean replied in what he hoped was a neutral tone, keeping his eyes on his homework.

Silecne hung between them, the only noise coming from the television, and Dean focused once again on his homework. He was aware of Castiel's presence next to him, still, quietly consuming the hotpocket. Then, the flip of paper, the click of a mechanical pencil, and then the scratching of lead. Dean swallowed because he was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that Castiel was drawing _him_. He could feel the stinging flick of those blue eyes as they glanced across his frame and he tried his best not to move too much while still looking like he hadn't noticed.

This went on for quite some time before Castiel set his pencil down with a sigh and Dean couldn't help but look around,

"Something wrong, Cas?"

The slight frown on Castiel's face was almost out of place but he looked up at Dean, blue meeting green unwaveringly.

"Dean," He said in a serious tone, "Have you been checking me out?"

At first, Dean wanted to blush in embarrassment at being caught but all he ended up doing was laughing. Castiel titled his head to the side, brow furrowing even deeper.

"Oh God, Cas!" Dean chuckled, shoulders shaking, "That's not how you—haahahahaha! You don't just _ask_ like that!" He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand, still grinning, "But, uh, yeah. Maybe. Once or twice." He raised a suspicious eyebrow, "Why?"

Castiel's face suddenly turned pink and he dropped his gaze to look at the sketchbook on his knees, "Um, I…it's just that I've been, er…" He swallowed, licking his lips (_tongue __flitting __between __lips __touching __together_), "I've been kind of…drawing you. A lot."

"Yeah, and?" Dean held back another laugh as Castiel's face went from baby pink to Valentine's Day red.

"C-can I show you something?" Those blue eyes darted back up to meet Dean's gaze and Dean somehow realized that this was important, "It's…I've never shown it to anybody, really. Kind of. Well, no, not to anyone." A shy smile crossed Castiel's lips, "It's my most prized possession."

Dean felt his defenses against any form of rejection try to throw out a line like "is it your dick" but he bit it them back. Castiel was being honest-to-God open with him. He was not about to throw it back in the guy's face.

"Er, yeah, Cas, you can show me."

Castiel swallowed nervously and gripped the hem of his dorky white sweater. On the front there was a picture of a golden halo and a pair of black wings. Underneath, in curving crimson letters, it said "bad angel". Castiel pulled the shirt over his head (_bare__ chest__ smooth __pale __chest __rising __fall __breathing __alive_), dropped it onto the floor, and turned his back to Dean.

Whatever Dean was expecting, it wasn't what he saw.

Etched carefully into the fine skin of Castiel's back was a pair of wings.

Pitch black ink in loops and curves across his shoulders, spilling down his back in a lovely pattern. They started at a point right between his shoulder blades with a series of triple spirals and unfurled in an almost Celtic knot fashion. The long feathers curved inwards, towards his spine, ending just above the waistline of his jeans. The work was so intricate and so beautiful that Dean half-expected them to come to life, to unfold from Castiel's back and become midnight black feathers he could run his hands through.

Instead, he pressed the tips of his fingers to the spirals where the wings began, feeling them tingle against the hot flesh of Castiel's back.

"It's called a Triskellion," Castiel said, looking over his shoulder at Dean, "It's, uh, Celtic-Nordic, if I remember right." A little smile twitched his lips, "The triple spirals show the trinity of mind, body, and spirit."

"Nerd." Dean said, smirking. His fingers continued to trace the wing tattoo up, down, around, spiral back up, twist to the left, curve to the right, meet back in the middle, "Trenchcoat wearing nerd angel."

Castiel actually let out a snort of laughter.

"Why'd you get them?"

"I drew them myself," Castiel replied in a soft voice, "After my father left. He was a soldier and went MIA when I was still in high school. My mother was…she did not take it very well. After she passed away, my oldest brother, Michael, was left to take care of us. Things fell apart after that."

Dean could relate to the dad thing. Sam and Dean had lost thing mother in a house fire and were left traveling the country with their father, a salesman who was more interested in what lay at the bottom of a bottle of liquor that finding a decent hotel for the night. Dean had taken care of Sam for years. But everyone knew the story of the Winchesters. Dean had never heard Castiel's tale.

"Zack left…we think he started taking drugs. No one heard from him again after that." The heavy tone in Castiel's voice was almost crushing, but there was something in it that said he had been waiting a long time to talk to someone, to get everything off his chest, "Then Michael and Luce got into a fight about what was best for the family because I wanted to go college and Luce thought we should stay together and Michael wanted me to do whatever I wanted. And once they started fighting, Gabriel ran off because he hates it when people argue…"

And without even realizing it, Dean pulled Castiel slowly to his chest, wrapping his arms around the art student and setting his chin on the other man's scruffy hair. Just to let him know that someone is there and that someone _cares_. Castiel didn't fight it. In fact, he relaxed into the embrace and closed his eyes as he continued to talk, letting it all out.

"Luce got so angry…and he just stomped off. I know he did some really, really terrible things. Arson, drugs, I think he even killed—. He's in prison now. We kind of…don't really talk to him all that much." Castiel let out a hitched breath and Dean automatically ran his hand up and down Castiel's arm, a comforting gesture, nothing more, "So it was just me and Michael for a while. And when I got my acceptance letter, he was really happy for me so there was that. But I…I called Gabriel and told him I wanted to do something special. He asked me what and I didn't know. We talked about it for a while. It was his idea, the tattoo, I mean. He knew I was big on drawing and symbols and mythology and stuff."

Dean pressed his nose into the top of Castiel's head, squeezing him just a bit tighter as if doing so would keep the rest of the world at bay. He can smell the shampoo Castiel used that morning, the faint scent of lead and paint and paper, and, underneath that, a dusky, after-the-rain smell.

"So we went to this really good tattoo place—Gabe was friends with the guy who ran it, uh, Ash or something, I think. And I showed him my design and…" Castiel shrugged, "I got the tattoo."

"Did it hurt?"

"Like balls."

Dean chuckled because he could tell it wasn't a phrase that Cas used that often. If at all.

"What did Michael say?"

Castiel's shoulders slumped and Dean wished he hadn't said anything, "He got mad. Michael's kind of…super religious. You can't even say "crap" around him or he gets mad. Anyway, he got pissed and told me off, yelled at me for "defiling my body, the temple of the Lord", and I told him that I could do what I wanted. And then Gabriel stepped in and he _never_ gets into fights and Michael yelled at him too. So we…we just kind of left."

"I'm sorry." Inadequate. So, completely and utterly inadequate and Dean hated himself for saying the words but he really didn't know what else to say. What else _are_ you supposed to say to a story like that?

"I still talk to Gabe." Castiel muttered, "But Michael won't answer any of our calls. I think he hates us now."

"Well I like you."

The words came out before he could stop them. Dean felt his face flush bright, brilliant red. Castiel twisted in his arms and looked him in the eye, cheeks pink.

"You mean that?"

"Yeah." And he did.

Castiel blinked and then a full fledged smile like Dean had never seen before lit up the art student's face,

"I like you too, Dean."

And then lips were pressed together, fingers ran along skin, traced black wings, ran through hair, legs tangled on the couch, books and shirts lay forgotten on the floor. Smoldering of hot kisses, gasping of air, arms wrapped tight around one another.

It didn't go farther than kissing. After a few minutes, the two lay sprawled on the couch, arms around each other, a comfort. No one said anything. They didn't have to.

Castiel's black wings pressed against Dean's bare chest. He felt like they belonged there.


	7. That One Time He

_And now you will all get a giant dump of all the Destiel I wrote over Christmas Break. Have fun, brave souls._

_Inspired by a picture I found on Tumblr that I can't seem to locate again, unfortunately. Well, it's in my Tumblr somewhere (hosekiasylum . tumblr . com). You'll know it when you see it._

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><p><strong>That One Time He…<strong>

* * *

><p>It starts with Castiel wanting to order a hamburger at the restaurant where they stop before heading back to their hotel after a hunt that ended up being a bust.<p>

"Cas, you can't just eat burgers all the time." Dean says, pushing the menu down so he can look the angel in the face.

"You do." Cas points out and Sam makes a noise somewhere along the lines of an agreement.

"No, I don't" Dean argues back, "Yesterday I had a Monte Cristo sandwich. The day before that was pasta. _You_, on the other hand, have had nothing but hamburgers and you need to eat something else."

"I don't need to eat." Castiel replies flatly, "I simply enjoy the sensation."

The bickering continues, with Dean saying that just because he didn't _need_ to didn't mean he _shouldn't_ and if he was _going to_ then it wouldn't be just hamburgers. Castiel argues back that it doesn't matter what he eats because he's an angel in a tone of voice that said this should have been the end of the conversation.

But Dean keeps going and by the end of it, he's threatening to simply order Castiel a salad.

And then, without warning, Cas it gone.

A simple flutter of wings and the angel has left the Winchesters alone at their booth. Dean blinks in surprise and looks around as if expecting to see Castiel pouting in a corner. He even waves the waitress off and goes to investigate the restrooms to see if Cas is hiding there. When he returns, unsuccessfully, he finds Sam gaping out the window, a confused and bemused expression on his face.

"What?" Dean flops back into the seat, sulking slightly.

Sam simply raises a hand and points out the window at the tree outside the restaurant. It's the tree Dean camped the Impala under to keep the leather out of the sun and the interior cool.

And curled up in the branches, trenchcoat hunched around his shoulders, a surly expression on his face, is Castiel.

"What the hell…" Dean peers at Cas through the window, trying to catch the angel's gaze but Castiel is glaring pointedly at the roof of the building and ignoring him completely. Dean turns instead to Sam, "What the _hell_!"

Sam just shrugs, "I'm not going out there to get him down."

Dean scowls at him, scoots out of the booth, and heads out the door. The air outside is crisp, summer on the edge of fall, and the tips of the leaves are starting to turn. Dean stops underneath the tree, looking up into the tree. From his angle below the branches, all he can make out of Castiel is the edge of a tan trenchcoat, the slacks, and a shoe. The rest is shadowed by leaves and branches.

"Cas, get down here."

"No."

"Castiel, get your feathery ass back on the ground."

"Not until I can have a hamburger."

Dean makes a face. Seriously. Castiel is acting like the child who didn't get his way, the kid who wanted to get the candy and pouted when they were told they couldn't. This was unbelievable.

"Cas, I'm not gonna ask you again. Get. Down."

"No."

"Come down this second."

"Make me."

"Don't make me come up there."

"You won't."

"I'll pull you out of the fucking tree, Castiel!"

"No you won't."

Dean throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, "Fine, then you can stay up there." And he turns to go, huffing and muttering under his breath.

There is a soft breeze and Dean's way is suddenly blocked by a wall of dazzling lights and rainbows filtered through pure crystal in the shape of feathers. Cas has manifested his wings and stretched them out as far as he can go, curling them around the tree branches to stop Dean's progress. Dean glances at the tree, where he can now only see the toe of one of Castiel's shoes, and then reaches up and tugs on a handful of feathers. There's an indistinguishable noise from the branches. Dean reaches up even higher, feeling through the sunlight-on-the-water rainbows and grabs a thick handful of soft-as-sand feathers. He jerks on them sharply and Cas lets out a strangled noise halfway between pain and pleasure.

"You'd better come down or I'll pull some out and stuff a pillow with them." Dean calls.

No response from the angel in the tree.

"All right, you asked for it." Dean makes a big show of preparing to give the wings a particularly painful jerk when they beat out of his fingers and, in a sudden flurry of feathers and leaves, Castiel is on top of him. The angel's hands are pressed into Dean's shoulders, his legs straddling the man's stomach, his face inches away from Dean's surprised expression.

"Please do not pull on my feathers, Dean."

Dean simply grins, "It got you out of the tree."

Castiel turns his head slightly and then the ghost of a smile turns the corners of his lips up ever so slightly, "Did it get me a burger?"

"That depends on how good you are."

"Good at what?"

And not caring that people were peering through the window of the restaurant to watch, not carrying that Sam would get all flustered and huffy about it later, not caring that this had all started because of a stupid argument, Dean twists his fingers into Castiel's light-feathers, hoists himself up, and smothers the angel—_his_ angel—in kisses until his lips go numb.


	8. Angel Wings

_Inspired by How To Train Your Dragon. Not gonna lie about that. I love that movie like nobody's business. This was going to be longer, an actual full length fic, but I dropped it. I really don't have time for it._

* * *

><p><strong>Angel Wings<strong>

**(In which things that started off good actually end up going terribly wrong. And then somehow end up better than before.)**

* * *

><p>It started with Sam.<p>

They'd just gotten back from a hunt, shaking the dust off their boots from a town plagued by a group of rather nasty vampires**, **and Sam was being unusually quiet. When Dean had asked what was wrong (in an off hand sort of way, mind you, because brothers didn't ask that of each other, they just didn't), Sam had simply shrugged him off and said nothing.

Later, though, Dean had walked in on an argument and it all became clear.

Sam didn't want to be a hunter anymore and John Winchester, Sam and Dean's father, was less than pleased. Dean didn't know what to do about it. All he could do was stand there and watch as his already fractured family tore itself apart. Sam wanted to quit the hunting life, leave the family legacy behind, and live a normal, apple pie life with his girlfriend Jess. Dean could hardly blame him for loving a girl. He'd been dating Ruby for two years and even though their relationship was a rocky one, she was a hunter too and she understood that hunting meant protecting people at the risk to your own life.

Except then that little bit went downhill too.

Ruby was "tired" and she "needed her own space" and before Dean, who had come to her for _comfort_, could understand what had happened…he'd been dumped. Well, wasn't that just peachy. His father and younger brother weren't speaking, his girlfriend had just dumped him, and he didn't know where to turn.

So he went home. Only things weren't much better there. Sam had packed up and left, heading over to live with Jess and John was stomping about the house in silent fury. Dean really didn't want to talk to him in that kind of state but he needed to talk to _someone_.

"Dad?"

John grunted, not looking up from the gun he was cleaning.

"Um, about Sam—."

"I'm leaving for a hunt tonight." John interrupted. He obviously didn't want to talk about his youngest son.

"Wha—but you—we just got back from one!"

"There's a nest of demons packing outside of town. We don't know how far but they're tearing apart anyone who gets too close." John put the gun back together and stowed it away, still not looking to his eldest, "They're too dangerous to let live. We're leaving tonight."

Dean lost his temper, "_You're_ leaving tonight! I'm not going!"

"You going to quit hunting too?" John _still_ wasn't looking at him.

"No." Dean snapped bitterly, "But I'm taking a break. I need to get away from all…this." He gestured around the room and then spun towards the door, "Don't bother waiting up for me." And he slammed the door shut behind him before his father could say anything.

* * *

><p>The forest surrounding their hometown was a place of solitude. Quiet, especially at night, warded on its borders by sigils and demon traps, marked out by silver and iron stakes, and clearly defined a ring of dead ground where a line of salt was laid over and over and over again. Mythos was a hunter town, there was no denying it, it could almost be called a fortress.<p>

Dean pushed his way through the woods, shoving aside branches and kicking down underbrush, anything to vent his frustrations. Sam was an idiot for leaving, Ruby was an idiot for dumping him, and his father was being a stubborn idiot. Now he didn't know where to turn because everyone had turned against him. He was frustrated, alone, and completely lost. The part of his mind still able to think rational thoughts told him he could have gone to Bobby but Dean's angry told it to back off. Being alone was what he needed.

So blinded by his emotions was the young hunter that he failed to notice the sheer drop in front of him. One second he'd been stomping across the forest floor and the next second his boot had met air and he was tumbling head over heels down a rocky slope that had been hidden by the underbrush

It was a narrow, too narrow, and Dean's elbows scraped the sides, holes being torn in his jeans by the rough rock walls. Then it abruptly widened and he found himself in a…what? A gorge? A cave? His head was spinning but as he pushed himself to his feet and looked up, he could see the moonlight slicing through the thin crack he'd fallen through. It bounced off the surface of a shallow, underground pond, casting a silvery glow that lit up the cavern. Ahead of him, Dean could see a passage leading into darkness; it was either a way out or a maze of caves he would die in.

Something shuffled behind him and he spun around, already yanking a knife from the sheath at his waist. But what he saw made him freeze.

It was a dragon.

Dean didn't think he'd seen anything so magnificent in his entire life.

It was twice as big as a horse but lithe and curved like that of a mink or a ferret. It had a long tail that ended in silver-white feathers that swept the ground, the same colored feathers were flattened across its neck from the base of its narrow head and sprouted at the ankles of its four feet. It was crouched low to the ground, the silvery claws on its toes digging into the rock beneath it, the wing-like ears on its head flattened down like an angry dog.

But what captured Dean were those eyes. They were brilliant blue, impossibly blue, electric and wise, like ice against the perfect diamond and snow white of the dragon's scales. The moonlight hit those scales and refracted off into shafts of gorgeous silver. But when it struck those eyes, the blue seemed to pulse and glow.

Dean swallowed and took a step forward. The dragon made a hissing noise and Dean froze again. The two stared at one another for a long, silent time. Dragons were legendary. It was said that the hunters had nearly driven them to extinction and forced the great beasts into the farthest corners of the world. Most of them, it was rumored, were hiding in Europe. Dean didn't doubt that. But here was a dragon, right in front of him, like a precious gem hidden beneath the ground.

Mustering his courage, he took another step forward and the dragon sank lower to the ground, shuffling its wings. And that's when Dean took a really good look and something in him simply broke.

The dragon's wings, compared to the rest of its glorious body, were—and there was no other word for it—dying. They were grey and lifeless looking, hanging off the dragon's sides like useless weights, dragging in the dirt. Dean supposed the feathers were usually the same gorgeous silver-white as the ones on the dragon's tail, legs, and neck.

Without even thinking, he dropped the knife and was across the cave in a second. He stopped short of the dragon, though, seizing up as he gazed into the things eyes. It didn't trust him. Dean swallowed and held up his hands, a universal sign that he was unarmed. The dragon cocked its head to the side and its ears flicked forward. Dean licked his lips and edged closer. The dragon's gaze followed him. He continued to move closer, inch by inch, and the dragon kept following him, turning its head so it could keep the boy in its sights.

When he finally reached the wings, he dropped to his knees, raised a hand, hesitated, and then ran his fingers gently over the feathers. The effect was immediate. The dragon relaxed and lay down on the ground, stretching its wings out as far as it could. Dean paused and then smoothed down some more feathers, straightening them so they lined up. The dragon hummed and the sound came from deep in its belly, vibrating across the cave floor to beat in Dean's chest like a bass drum.

Dean kept stroking and smoothing the feathers, running his fingers over their silky surfaces. And as he did so, he began to talk. He told the dragon about his family, about how his mother had died in a house fire and how his father had been left to raise them on their own. He told it about his younger brother Sam and how he would do anything to protect his sibling. He talked about the hunts he'd been on, the evil he'd defeated. He talked about the girl's he'd met, about how he'd been dating Ruby and how, he realized, it had never actually worked out. He talked about his father's anger and Sam leaving and how much it hurt.

And as he talked and smoothed and groomed, the feathers beneath his fingers lightened, became silver-white, almost crystalline in their beauty. Dean froze when he saw what was going on, his fingers still deep in the gorgeous feathers. Gone was the decayed look, gone was the gray, molted appearance. The dragon's wings appeared healthy and perfect.

"What are you?" Dean whispered and the dragon lifted itself off the ground, turning slowly to face him.

It spread its wings, sweeping them forward to wrap around Dean and the teen let out a small cry of fear. The dragon paused and raised a clawed foot, reaching toward Dean. Again, Dean made a noise of terror and tried to back away, running into a wall of feathers, sure that he was about to be eaten. The dragon dropped its foot and cocked its head to the side. Then its tail slowly swung around and it brushed the large feathers on the end across Dean's face.

The teenager shuddered, swallowed, and took a step forward. Those amazingly blue eyes stared deep into his own green ones. Dean raised a trembling hand and moved closer. The dragon did not move. Closer and closer the teenager inched, hand outstretched in front of him, ready to pull it back at any second. The dragon remained perfectly still, even its tail lay unmoving across the ground.

When he was mere centimeters away, Dean froze. His fingers hovered just over the dragon's narrow nose. Cool breath tickled across his skin as the great beast breathed out. Dean swallowed and, after a split second of hesitation, let his fingers brush across the dragon's scales.

It was like touching glass. His fingers slid across the pure white scales, traced the edge of that powerful jaw, and then pulled away. The dragon seemed to smile. Then it stretched its forepaw forward and pressed it against Dean's arm, its long fingers pushing aside the sleeve of his t-shirt to push his upper arm. An icy cold, so cold it burned flashed through Dean and he stumbled back with a shout of pain, collapsing to the floor and clutching at his arm.

A soothing coolness wrapped around him and he suddenly found himself pressed against the dragon's belly, wrapped in great silver-white feathers with a pair of concerned blue eyes looking down at him. Dean shuddered again and pushed aside the sleeve of his shirt to see the damage. There was a raised mark on his usually smooth skin, like a welt or an angry burn, in the shape of the dragon's hand-shaped paw.

Dean looked back up at the dragon in a mixture of awe and shock, "You…you marked me."

The dragon made a strange, warbling noise and cocked its—no _his_—head, ears flicking towards Dean's voice.

"But I'm a hunter."

There came a bouncing, deep throated hum and Dean realized that the dragon was laughing. Dean smiled, he couldn't help himself. Still sitting sprawled against the dragon's broad chest, he held out a hand,

"I'm Dean. Dean Winchester."

The dragon stared curiously at the offered hand and then pushed his nose into it, forcing his head under Dean's fingers. Dean chuckled and pulled his hand away, "No, silly, you're supposed to tell me your name." The dragon cocked his head again, "What? Dragons don't talk? I thought you guys were all about riddles and stuff?"

The dragon blinked those great blue eyes at him and then leaned forward and pressed his large forehead against Dean's.

In an instant, Dean's mind was flooded with information. Most of it didn't stick, his brain trying to figure out what all the information it was getting was about. But he did understand several things: this was a dragon called an Angel, he had been separated from his nest, without companionship his wings had wilted, Dean's passion had healed them, he had marked Dean as his own, for protection, to stay by his side forever and always.

And his name was Castiel.


	9. Ground Rules

_Sam, get more involved with your brother's relationship._

* * *

><p><strong>Ground Rules (For Public Displays of Affection)<strong>

* * *

><p>It had to stop.<p>

It really, really, _really_ had to stop.

Doing it in the motel rooms or in the back seat of the Impala was one thing but doing it in public was something else entirely.

And it was staring to get on Sam's nerves. People would stare and whisper behind their hands and of course neither Dean nor Castiel seemed to notice but it was making Sam uncomfortable. They really didn't need the attention.

The last straw was the diner.

It was supposed to be a regular evening meal, just the three of them (two, maybe, since Castiel didn't eat). Dean and the angel were sitting next to one another, leaving the other side of the booth for Sam. The waitress was friendly enough, flirted with Dean (of course), and when that failed she hit on Sam who really wasn't interested, and then smiled at Cas who just blinked at her. Once they placed their orders, the disappointed woman stalked away trying to look like she wasn't huffy.

That's when it started.

Sam felt a breeze across his face and looked up but no one had entered the diner. Passing it off as a trick of his tired mind, he went back to leafing through the newest addition to his book collection. Something brushed his arm and he looked up sharply, glaring across the table at Dean and Castiel because he _knew_ that electric-static-shock-from-the-carpet feeling could only come from Cas' wings.

Dean grinned innocently back, both of his hands under the table (Sam hurriedly wiped away a horrid mental image), and Cas just sat there with his usual blank expression.

"Not in the diner, please." Sam muttered and went back to his book. But now he was only half paying attention to it. He kept watching Dean out of the corner of his eye and, yep, sure enough, Dean was definitely fondling Cas' wings. In public. Again. At first, Sam had thought this wouldn't be a problem since no one besides Dean could see the wings. But the things were still manifested and they still smacked about, especially when Dean hit a sweet spot.

"Not in the diner, what?" Dean continued playing innocent but Sam could see his hand creeping up in the air beside Castiel, fingers rubbing against something. And Cas himself was twitching, his jaw clenched, trying to keep his wings from spasming but Sam knew it was only a matter of time.

This went on for a while. Dean fiddling with Cas' wings (the angel only manifested them because Dean's fingers in his feathers were like a drug he'd gotten himself addicted to), Sam occasionally telling them to knock it off, and Castiel trying his hardest to keep himself under control.

Unfortunately, the moment he did lose control was the precise moment that their food arrived. The waitress approached, carrying their dinner, and Dean yanked his hand away quickly. Only his fingers seemed to snag in some feathers and he kept pulling, looking quite comical, like a mime with it's hand stuck in an imaginary something. Then he pulled in the exact wrong direction (or right depending on which end you were on) and there was a woosh of air. One wing smacked Dean in the face and tumbled against the wall, almost falling under the table, his fingers finally coming free. The other wing snapped wide open and hit the waitress.

Food went everywhere.

The three hurriedly left the diner. Castiel's face was the reddest Sam had ever seen it.

After that, Sam was not going to tolerate anymore stupid stunts from either of them. So one evening, while Dean was out getting dinner, Sam called Castiel. It took a couple of tries—Cas liked answering Dean in an instant, dropping whatever he was doing to run to the oldest Winchester, but he tended to take his time when it came to Sam.

"Did you need something?" The angle asked, appearing in that light flutter of wings.

"Yeah," Sam squared his shoulders, "I've already tried talking to Dean about this but he doesn't want to listen. You're kind of…the more sensible one. So here it goes," He took a breath and said, "I need you guys to stop fondling each other in public."

Cas tilted his head slightly, unsure what Sam was trying to say.

Sam let out a sigh, "Stop letting Dean play with your wings when go somewhere. It's distracting and it makes a mess. I don't care if you guys do it in the motel room but not in a restaurant or…or the park or when we're on a case."

"But it's how we display affection." Castiel argued back in a confused monotone, "Dean was opposed to holding hands, he said it was…girly. I enjoy the sensation of my wings being 'fondled' as you put it. And Dean enjoys touching them."

Sam scowled, "Yeah, well, look what happened the last time. What if someone gets seriously hurt next time that happens. Hell, you smacked Dean into the wall, Cas! Those wings have some kick to them!"

Cas seemed to shrink at the words and Sam realized he'd upset the angel. Castiel was proud of his wings and Sam telling him off for having them had probably upset him. But the hard truth was that Castiel really needed to learn to control himself.

The air moved, Sam felt it, and he looked up at Cas. The angel was standing straight, a defiant look on his face, and, in the light of bedside lamp, Sam could just make out the shadow of a pair of wings being cast on the wall behind Castiel.

"My wings are my own," Castiel said hotly, frowning at Sam, "I am an angel of the Lord, Sam Winchester. I will not hide my wings."

Sam forget how stubborn Cas could be, "Fine. I'm not asking you to hide them. Just…don't pull them out all the time."

Castiel did not dignify him with an answer. He simply raised his head as if trying to look down at Sam. As if trying to say "make me, I dare you". Sam wasn't about to turn that challenge down.

Before Cas could register the look of determination in the youngest Winchester's eye, Sam had launched himself across the room and tackled Cas to the floor. He could feel Cas' wings bristling against this arms as the angel fought back. There was a lot of shouting, struggling, and more than once Sam got smacked on the back of the head with a wing. But he finally managed to pin Cas face-down on the carpet, sitting on the angel's lower back, hands pressed between his shoulder blades where he can feel the feather tickling his skin. After a moment of struggling, Cas gave up and glared at the wall because he couldn't see Sam. For his part, Sam was wondering why the angel just didn't hit him across the room, God knew he was strong enough to do it.

Shrugging off the thought, Sam looked around for something to restrain Cas' wings with. It was an extreme but he really didn't know what else to do. So until he found a solution, it would have to do. Unfortunately, there was nothing useful nearby. Except…

Sam groaned but lifted one hand to undo his belt all the same. Cas jerked at the sound of the belt buckle coming undo and tried to twist around to see what was going on but Sam kept one hand firmly on the angel's back. Castiel still didn't tap into his angelic strength to throw Sam off.

Now to find the actual wings.

Dropping the belt onto Castiel's back, Sam lifted his hand and felt in the air for the wing. Nothing. Cas probably didn't have them raised. He dropped his hand and felt along the carpet, staring at Castiel's shoulder. He could feel the angel's eyes on him and it made him uncomfortable but he shook it off and kept feeling around.

When he touched the feathers, the shock sent a tingle up his arm and down his spine. He ran his hands over them, trying to find the edge. He had always assumed that angels had feathery wings, just like birds, but Castiel had corrected him. Angels' wings were made of Grace, the power that gave angels the ability to be, well, angels. Dean had tried to describe them to Sam as light and every color in the universe but had stopped angrily when Sam had started dropping lines about gay double rainbows. Now, running his hands over the silk-soft electric bursts, Sam wished he could see them.

A low humming noise distracted him and he looked around, thinking maybe the heater had turned on or something. Until he realized that the humming was coming from Castiel. Sam quickly yanked his hand off of the angel's wing and the humming stopped. Cas looked at him and there was humor in his gaze. Sam scowled, reached back to the spot where the feathers had been, and grabbed a handful of them. A yelp from Castiel. Sam pulled on the feathers, trying to pull the wing up so he could trap it under his knee. Castiel would have none of it and made the most un-angelic like sound Sam had ever heard—something like a growl that rumbled in the angel's throat—before yanking back, almost pulling Sam to the floor.

"I'm doing this for your own good!" Sam snapped, keeping his grip tight on the one wing while his other hand quested for the other. The trapped wing kept straining in his grasp and Castiel continued to make that low growling noise that reverberated like a bass drum in Sam's chest.

He finally found the other wing, grabbed it, and pulled it back too. It felt a bit like he was trying to pull back on the reigns of a rather unruly horse. And Castiel was not going to go quietly. As if he wanted to remind Sam that his wings were not his only appendages, the angel pressed his hands into the carpet and pushed back as if trying to stand. Sam jerked back on his wings, leaning away from Cas, and the growling noise grew louder. It almost sounded like a…

"Cas, are you _purring_!"

Castiel just flopped back to the floor and tried to flare his wings. Sam, unprepared, was dragged forward. His grip still tight on the feathers he couldn't see, the young Winchester ended up sprawled across Castiel's back, his face in the angel's shoulder, their legs tangled together as Sam tried to reorient himself.

Dean chose that exact moment to come back with the food.

"Hey Sam, their salad looked kinda iffy so I got you a veggie burger…in…stead…"

"Hello Dean." The pleasant tone in Castiel's voice made Sam's face turn red. He let go of Cas' wings, scrambled across the floor, and clambered to his feet.

"I-it's not what it looked like!" He said quickly.

"Oh yeah?" Dean said and that tone in his voice was dangerous as he kicked the door closed and dropped the food on the bed, "Tell me what it looked like Sammy."

"You guys have been getting kind of…frisky in public. Dangerously so." Sam took a couple of steps back, "Look, I just don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Ooohhh, somebody's gonna get hurt, Sam." Dean started forward but his path was suddenly blocked by Cas trying to get to the bag of food. Dean's attention immediately switched targets, "And _you_. What was that humming, huh? Sammy doin' it better than me?"

"He pulled my feathers in a pleasing manner." Castiel responded as if he were discussing the weather and Sam wanted to disappear, "I was simply expressing my satisfaction."

"Satis—oh, oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Dean, please, it was just a—."

"Uh-uh." Dean shook a finger at Sam, stopping any objections, "There's _rules_, man. Guy rules. Haven't you ever heard: _thou shalt not touch the angel thy brother is currently dating_?"

"That is not one of my Father's commandments…" Cas said slowly, tilting his head.

Dean ignored him, "You don't touch my angel." Sam opened his mouth to try and explain himself but Dean wouldn't have it, "Hands off the merchandise, Sammy. If you want a wing-job so bad, go find your own angel to 'grip you tight and raise you from perdition'. And _you_," The oldest Winchester rounded on Castiel who stopped with a hand inserted into the food bag like a cat who'd been caught with a paw in the milk jug, "Nobody else gets to fondle your wings but me, got it? That's like…that's like cheatin' on me, Cas!"

"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Dean." Castiel replied, hand still in the food, "It was unexpected. Sam has a very strong grip. Did you bring me a burger?"

"No." Dean yanked the bag away from the angel, jealousy clear on his features, "And just for that, no more wing touching for a week. Two weeks!"

Sam didn't think he had ever seen Castiel look so crushed.

But a week later, Sam walked in on Dean with his face pushed into the blankets beside Cas and angel practically singing while his free wing beat the wall next to them.

So really, nothing actually changed.


	10. Soul Comet

_Fluff. Nothing but fluff. And I totally didn't take the title from an attack in _Shadow Hearts: Covenant._ Nope, not at all. Get that look off your face, I don't know what you're talking about._

* * *

><p><strong>Soul Comet<strong>

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><p>They're taking a much needed break, spending a slow weekend at Bobby's because God knows they need it. There's been no sign of anything lately, no suspicious activity, no omens, no brutal murders outside the ones humanity does on its own. Of course they're all suspicious but taking the chance to unwind is not something that's passed up lightly.<p>

It's summer, the heat blazing, and Sam has taken to hiding in the basement, nose buried in book after book. Bobby's not so different, only crankier, snapping at anyone who happens to get in his way. Cas pops in and out as he pleases, seemingly unbothered by the heat, even in his trenchcoat. Dean just wants the heat wave to break and has been spending his time under the hood of his baby, fine tuning her, cleaning her, relaxing.

Sometimes Castiel watches him, standing nearby or perched on the roof of a car, head titled as he watches Dean work. Or watches Dean's shirtless back curve as he bends over to attend the engine. Sometimes, very rarely, he helps. Hands tools, make comments, shakes his head when he doesn't understand. Dean doesn't care either way, he just enjoys the angel's presence.

So when he turns around to get into his toolbox and finds Castiel stretched out on the roof of a car, he's a little surprised. The trenchcoat, suit jacket, shirt, and even the tie are in a neatly folded pile on the car's hood and Cas is naked from the waist up, lying on his stomach. His arms are crossed in front of him, cushioning his head, his eyes closed to the world and Dean knows he's not asleep because angels don't need sleep.

But what really draws his attention are those wings.

He would have thought—had actually imagined—that Castiel's wings would be almost impossible to see in the sunlight, the way you can't see a flash light beam unless it hits something.

But the angel's wings are just as glorious in the daylight. They seem to drain the rest of the color out of the world, making everything else look muted and boring, the feathers saturated with a twisting cascade of lion's mane gold, hellfire red, night sky violet, and that specific, impossibly greenest green of every green that is in all the "save the trees" pictures that show the rainforest. Dean even thinks he sees a hint of macaroni-and-cheese orange. The sunlight is pulled into the wings until they overflow with the radiance, so much light being cast forth that it looks as if it is dripping in pure, gold-white spheres that splash across the car, the ground, before drifting back up into the sky. Light is raining up.

Dean leans back against his Impala, simply watching. And wondering a little. Angels didn't sleep so that's not what this was and Castiel _never_ took his shirt off unless there was dire need to. Or because Dean had pushed it off to kiss and stroke. He thinks for a while, relishing the sight and the way the summer heat warms his shoulders and—oh.

Ooooohhhh.

Duh.

Castiel is sunbathing.

Dean almost laughs but he doesn't want the angel to wake up, doesn't want this perfect vision to move, to disturb this god of light. So he quietly sips a beer and pretends to be fiddling with his baby again. Only his eyes are tracing the curve of Cas' shoulder, lingering on that tousled hair, following the bending curve of light-feathers.

_What need does an angel have for sunbathing?_ he has to wonder.

Maybe they're like solar panels and their wings can store sunlight. Or power. Grace. Whatever. Something. But that just seems silly because Dean has never seen Castiel do this before and he's always (almost always) charged and ready to go when the Winchesters are.

Maybe he actually _is _sleeping. Dean immediately scraps this idea because he knows Cas better than anyone. Cas. Never. Sleeps. _Ever_.

So maybe this is the angel's way of relaxing, of unwinding, of letting all the tension and the trouble roll off of him. Dean can't help but smile because if this is Castiel's way of relaxing he wouldn't mind if the angel did it a little more often. Cas doesn't like to show his skin and he's even tentative around Dean about so much as unbuttoning his shirt. Dean doesn't even know how they guy's going to feel about sex. If they ever get to that part. His relationship with Castiel is one of the few (_the only one? no, that can't be right_) that hasn't began and ended with sex. But it's okay, he can wait. Will wait. Because he's not sure he's ready either.

Castiel sighs and shifts on the roof of the car and his wings twitch and _oh_ that's glorious.

Light refracts across every surface like a disco ball made of rainbows. Streaks of lover's pink and cobalt blue are dashed across the ground, lines of light flooded in dandelion yellow, diamond white, and molten silver whip along the cars, and rainbows and drops of sunlight splash along Dean's bare chest. His fingers come up and play through the beams of light bouncing off of Castiel's wings and he can't stop the smile from coming to his face.

Cas makes that pleasant humming noise he makes when Dean starts playing with his feathers and shifts again. His wings stretch out even further, resting on top of the cars on either side of him. Beams of light and color bounce off and slice through the air. The angel's acting like it's the best thing in the world. And maybe it is because Dean has certainly never seen Cas so stretched out and relaxed.

He jumps when Castiel's gruff voice says, "Take a photograph if you want to keep staring."

Not exactly the right phrase but Dean laughs all the same, "Nah, I don't think the camera could handle your wings. 'Sides, I like playing with the light." As if to demonstrate, he sticks his hand into a shaft of rainbow refracting off of the windshield of the Impala, fingers tickling the air as if it were a physical thing.

Cas still hasn't raised his head or opened his eyes but the smallest of smiles lifts the corners of his mouth and he makes that humming noise again.

Dean raises an eyebrow at him, "Can you feel this?" He swipes a hand through a cluster of light to test.

The angel on the roof of the car makes a noise halfway between that pleasant hum and a giggle, pushing his face into his arms. Dean grins and starts brushing his hand over globules of ice blue and sunlit white that seemed to hang in the air beside him. The humming noise comes again, low and happy, and Castiel's wings lift off the car roofs before dropping in a lazy beat. The motion kicks up dust and the lights and colors scatter, racing around and around in glorious blazes of disco panic. They hit glass and metal and are doubled, tripled, lighting up the car lot like the scribbles of a child's coloring book.

Dean can't help but laugh as he watches the display. Then he looks down at himself, arms spread out to the sides, the lights spinning across his bare arms and chest, curving around his stomach, tangling in the dirty wrinkles of his jeans, twisting amongst his fingers. And he can almost feel them the way he can feel Das' wings; warm brushes, like a breeze sifted with silk across his skin.

"Do it again." Dean finds himself saying, arms still held out to the sides.

Cas' eyes slide open into tiny slits, the barest hint of blue looking at Dean. Then he smiles, raises his wings again and drops them once more.

Dean tilts his head back and lets the lights play across his frame. And before he knows what's gotten into him, he's spinning. He's spinning around like a kid trying to see how dizzy he can get before he can't walk in a straight line anymore. And it makes the light display even more beautiful, all of it blurring together like a painting of every color known and unknown to man.

He thinks he can hear Castiel laughing but he doesn't want to stop but it feels good. He hears the wings beat again. The lights and color flash. Warmth seeps into his bones—not the dry summer heat warmth but the kind of warmth he gets from simply letting go. Cas is sharing his elation, his simple happiness, the relaxation and looseness of a well-earned day off.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

Dean stumbles to a halt, tripping over his own feet, and almost falling. He catches himself on the still open hood of the Impala and blinks, trying to stop the world from spinning. When it eventually settles, Sam is standing in front of him, looking confused, a little worried, and not a little bit amused. Dean feels the heat starting to creep up his neck; he was just spinning around in the yard like a child and Sam can't see the lights that Castiel's wings give off so Dean figures he probably looked pretty stupid.

"Er, Cas was—." But when Dean turns to point out Castiel sunbathing on the roof of the car…there's no one there.

Sam raises an eyebrow, "You okay?"

"That fucking…I'm gonna kill him." Dean mutters but there's not heat in the words. He raises a fist and shouts towards the sky, "You better watch your back, Cas! You're not the only one who can pull a prank!"

Sam makes a face, puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, and gently steers his older brother inside, mumbling something about being outside in the heat too long. Dean's not listening to him, to busy thinking up ways of getting back at Cas and trying to shake the feeling that someone's laughing eyes are trained on his back.

Somewhere out there, he knows Cas is laughing at him.


	11. Tarnished Silver

_Going through some old stuff, found this quote from _ages_ ago, and was suddenly struck with a fic idea. Not much of wings in it but there you have it._

* * *

><p><strong>Tarnished Silver<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>But his guardian star shines silver. He is a destructive force who puts the weak to the sword and seeks the blood of the strong. He disavows the existence of the weak and bares his teeth like some animal towards the strong. He's a pathetic man forced to live alone because the weakness of his own heart makes him keep others at arm's length." – Star Ocean: Till the End of Time<em>

* * *

><p>Castiel does not want to be in Heaven. He wants to be down on Earth, helping Sam and Dean with their latest hunt.<p>

But when the High Courts call you, it's better to answer than to ignore them and risk the consequences.

"Dean Winchester."

It is not a voice. There are no real voices in Heaven but for the sake of cataloging the event to relay to the Winchesters, Castiel will call it a voice. And he will tell them that the room is white and silver and gold even though colors have no substance in the High Courts, he will tell them of marble and clouds even though there is nothing physical nor nonexistent about the place, he will tell them of whispers and silver bells and choirs with voices raised in song even though everything is not-thought and absolute intention and perfect will.

"What about him?" Castiel knew his tone was arrogant. To speak in such a way to the High Courts…

"You _love_ him." Not anger, not even disgust. Curiosity. They want to know why, how, why, why, why, _why_ this lowly human mud monkey that crawls through the dirt, scrambling for life, life so short, so pathetic, so weak and easily broken.

Castiel can hear all of these thoughts, all of these intentions, all of these ideas. And it fills him with a surprising amount of rage. But he had always been fascinated by humans, his Father's most imperfect and most glorious creation.

"Yes." He won't answer their question unless they ask it directly. No tip-toeing around it, no hiding behind phrases. Or thoughts or feelings They would _ask him_.

Exasperation at his stubbornness, "Why?"

"Why not." There is no question in Castiel's voice, only a defiance, "He is perfect—."

"He is human."

"He is the Righteous Man!"

"He broke the first seal!"

Castiel made a frustrated noise, or that is what he will tell Sam and Dean later. Using human words, what really happened was something more like a hot, burning wave of Grace bursting in angry red fireworks and firefly sparks that swirl in a tornado. But a frustrated noise is close enough.

"His star is tinted red." The High Court continued, "From his time in the Pit. He is destructive and broken. Why have you chosen him?"

"His star is tarnished silver." Castiel growled, "It is not red. I have seen it, I held it, I _rebuilt _it. He is human, he makes mistakes. He trips and I catch him before he falls. I am his support."

"And what does he do for you?"

The question caught Castiel by surprise. He had never considered what Dean was doing for _him_, only what he could do for Dean. He had to think about it and when he did, he realized that Dean had done so much, so, so much, for him.

"He has done everything for me." Castiel answered, sending a glare at the High Court, "Yes, there have been times when he has made a choice that has…hurt me. But he has given me his attention, his trust, his love. He has made me a part of his family. It is an honor."

"And you have chosen to make him part of ours."

Oh, _there's_ the contempt. They didn't like the decision. Not because it was a human; humans joined the ranks of the angels every so often, it was nothing unusual. They didn't like it because he had chosen Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man who had broken the first seal to Lucifer's cage, the one who had first caused Castiel to fall. Poor, sad, broken, lonely, hurt Dean Winchester.

_Damaged goods._

_Poor thing._

_Lonely thing._

_Such a broken man._

_Pity, Castiel, pity his choice._

_Pity him and his broken toy._

The anger that Castiel felt at the thoughts, the intentions, the feelings of the High Court—of his brothers and sisters—is overpowering.

He wanted to tear, to rip, to shred. He wanted to grab their wings and rip the feathers from them, let his intentions stab into their Grace and dissolve it. He wanted to sent them aflame, to show them how much it had hurt when he had tore through Hell to get to the soul of Dean Winchester. He wanted to pull, to pull and pull and pull at their wings until they popped and tore and muscles ripped and Grace-light and thought and intention and being were spilled across not-marble floors. He wanted to lash out because they didn't understand.

How could they not understand?

He had watched others mate with humans, he had watched others manifest their wings, watched as their human companions ran fingers through streams of light and fire and radiance.

How could they not understand how he _felt_!

"I _love_ him!" The word was spat with such passion that the not-room shook with it. Castiel knew his Grace was glowing, was shedding light and feathers everywhere and he simply _did not care_. He stretched his wings out as far as he could, tips reaching for a ceiling that did not even exist. This, he decided, would show them. The utter devotion he had towards Dean was saturated into his wings. Every touch, every whisper, every prayer, every idle thought, every motion, every intention, every memory of their time together, _all of it_ powered his Grace. Dean was his fuel, his existence, his passion, his devotion.

The High Court simply watched as much as intention can watch. They let the light of Castiel's Grace wash over them and, when Castiel finally closed his wings, his self aching with force and love he had poured out, they said nothing for a long time.

"You may not understand this. In fact, I do not expect you to." Fuck the consequences, Dean would say. Castiel was speaking his mind, "Dean is my everything. He comes first. And if you cannot accept that decision, brothers and sisters, then my garrison will lose another angel. I will fall, right here, right now, for _him_! I will do it all over again for him!"

Silence. The quietest of all stillnesses. You could hear the air breathe if you listened.

"We know." The High Court finally said, "You would fall for him over and over again. You have already done it once, we do not doubt you, Castiel. We do not wish to separate you, only understand. Of all the humans on Earth, of all the billions and billions of them, why the Winchester boy? Why Dean Winchester? Why the broken Righteous Man? Why the scarred and damaged Dean?"

There was only one answer.

Castiel didn't think they would ever understand, love is not something that could simply be comprehended or understood in a few, mere words or transferred through intentions and thought. It is so much deeper, so much stronger.

But there was still only one answer.

_Why Dean Winchester? _

_Why the scarred, bruised, broken, shattered, hurt, but never beaten Dean Winchester?_

"I chose Dean Winchester because he is all of those things."


	12. Color Wheel

_It'll be like a bag of Skittles on an acid trip._

* * *

><p><strong>Color Wheel<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean had always thought that Castiel's wings were the most fantastic thing he had ever laid eyes on. There was nothing more glorious or more enchanting than the angel's wings spread in their full glory. Night or day, they shone brighter than the sunlight, made the rest of the world seem bland and colorless in comparison. They had no equal.<p>

What eluded Dean for the longest time was what else, aside from pleasure, those wings were good for.

If he thought about it hard enough, he probably realized that he had always known that Cas' wings were like a bulletin board for the angel's emotions. But with the swirl of colors and lights it had never really, really stuck. Well, that and most of the time when he saw those wings it was because he was running his fingers through them and smothering their owner in kisses.

Until the day Dean decided to try and tell Cas no.

"I'm coming with you." The angel stated as Dean shoved some guns into a bag.

"Yeah, I told you no." Dean responded, "This isn't just some half-assed parlor witch, Cas, this is a mega bitch. She knows how to mojo you into next week."

"I am an Angel of the Lord." Castiel said, "She cannot harm me."

"This one can." Check, reload, stow away, rinse, lather, repeat, "She knows how to hurt you, we've been poking around. I don't want you to get hurt. You're staying here."

"Dean." The tone of Castiel's voice had become dark and Dean looked over his shoulder to see the angel's blue eyes glaring angrily at him, "Do not tell me I cannot go with you."

"Tough shit." Dean muttered, turning his back, "You. Are not. Coming. End of story."

"It is not." Cas snapped and the room was suddenly lit with color and lights not coming from the lamps. Dean spun around to see the angel's wings unfurled from his back, half spread, lighting up the angry glare on his face, "If she can harm me then there is more danger to you. I will not allow you to go by yourself."

"Sammy's coming." Dean said, sticking his chin in the air. He wasn't about to let his angel push him around.

"Dean." Castiel growled, "Do not _test_ me."

It was then that Dean noticed how the colors in Castiel's wings were shifting. More of the reds and oranges and yellows were rising to the surface. Angry lava red flared against defensive orange, pushing back the cooling tones of winter shadows blue and sea surf green. Traffic light yellow flared, sending a cascade of lights down the walls, and was quickly followed by a burst of rich burgundy.

Cas was seriously pissed. Must have been a bad week.

Dean had backed down and allowed Castiel to come along on the hunt. Which had turned out to be a good thing because the witch was a bitch to deal with and all three of them went home a little worse for wear. But Castiel's wings returned to their usual tirade of wild colors and lights and nothing was said about the subject.

But Cas had apparently realized that Dean was finally beginning to understand the subtle shifts in color that played across his wings.

The next time they saw each other—no hunt, just a meal together at a rather crowded Cracker Barrel that had been the only thing for miles in a stretch of industrial factories—Cas let his wings open loosely from his shoulders for no apparent reason.

Dean was not really in the mood to fondle them and Castiel didn't seem to be in any mood to let him. He simply sat across the table from Dean, occasionally poking at food he really didn't need to eat, and watching Dean out of the corner of his eye like he thought the oldest Winchester couldn't tell. Dean ignored him, mostly. Sort of. He couldn't help but let his eye wander around the restaurant, watching the colors and lights play off the walls and the people and the glasses.

"He's got his wings out again, doesn't he?" Sam asked in a resigned tone, watching as Dean's green eyes stared at a spot on the table. Dean grunted in return; Sam couldn't see it but Castiel's wings were making some pretty cool light shapes through his glass of water. And it was while he was staring at the particular strands of light playing across the worn wooden tabletop that he noticed something.

The majority of the colors coming off of Cas' wings had changed again. They were mostly reds, not the angry ones from before, subtle, warm reds. Deep crimson splashed across an old set of hockey gear hanging on the wall, maraschino cherry played across a waitress' face as she walked past, firelight red danced on the ceiling, and…

"Cas, is that _hot pink_? Are you wings seriously _hot pink_?"

"No." Castiel said in the flattest tone he could muster and he pulled his wings close against his back. But he didn't put them away.

After that, Dean _kept_ noticing the colors. And he started to understand what they meant. A little. Reading people had never really been a huge forte of his but with Cas…he just sort of knew.

Like he knew that when that particular shade of lime green surfaced that it meant Cas didn't agree with him about something. He knew that a wash of rich, deep, royal purples were pride either for Cas himself or for someone he was close to, like one of the Winchesters. Bright oranges and yellows meant caution and alertness but throw in a dash of blinding red and it was rage, a certain silvery shade laced in light yellow like a wedding band in sunlight was contentment, deeper yellows and golds were happiness that lightened or darkened depending on the depth of that happiness, and waves of deep sea blues tangled with forest greens were worry for people Cas was close to.

Castiel's wings were as complex as he was and sometimes Dean got the wrong message but for the most part he understood what Cas' wings were trying to tell him. The only ones he couldn't figure out were those rich displays of reds and magentas and, hell, _pinks_. They were very distracting and whenever Dean saw them, his wandering gaze eventually found Castiel's brilliant blue eyes and the angel would hurriedly tuck his wings against his back as if this would stem the flow of light and color radiating from them.

And they popped up at the oddest moments.

Like when they were driving in the car and the interior of the Impala was abruptly filled with shimmering reds. Or when Dean was lounging on the bed, slowing himself down for a good night's sleep, and Cas' wings would just spontaneously unfold in a shower of iridescent crimson. Or when Dean was eating, those were the weirdest ones. And sometimes Castiel would just pop up for no apart reason, coat the room in scarlet for a while as he stared pointedly at Dean, and then left without ever really saying anything.

"Is something wrong with Cas?" Sam asked one evening as they were unpacking in the motel room.

"I think so." Dean muttered, shoving a stash of guns under his bed with his foot, "He just keeps showing off his wings everywhere and they keep turning red and it's weirding me out."

"Maybe it's a mating dance." Sam joked and then laughed and ducked as Dean hurled a pillow at him.

"Seriously, Sam, I'm not kidding." Dean flopped onto his bed, yanking his shoes off and dropping the on the floor before shimmying up the covers to lean against the headboard, "You remember how I told you his wings are usually, like, all the colors of the universe?"

Sam nodded, fighting the smile he always got when Dean talked about Castiel's wings, "Like rainbows, yeah, I remember."

"Dude, really, cut it out with the double rainbow thing. It stopped being funny the first time you said it." Dean scowled at his younger brother and returned to the topic at hand, "Anyway, sometimes the colors just sort of…go all red. I mean, there's still other colors _there_ but it's like they're pushed back or something."

"Maybe he's mad at you?" Sam offered, sitting down on his own bed and draping his arms over his knees.

Dean shook his head, "Wrong kind of red. If he was mad, they'd be orange and yellow too. Nah, these are all…I dunno, soft reds or something."

Sam made his "wtf" face and shrugged, "I don't know what to tell you, Dean, I don't know angel…biology or whatever. Look, maybe you should just ask—."

A flutter of wings and rubies were scraping across the walls as crimson spilled across the floor, pooling in the cracks and overflowing magenta onto the bed sheets. Sam looked at the newly appeared Castiel (who only had eyes for Dean) and then back to his brother. Dean raised his eyebrows and gave a small nod.

"Cas, are you sick?" Sam asked, turning back to the angel.

Those blue eyes darted to look at the youngest Winchester and then immediately snapped back to Dean, "No." He tilted his head to the side and Dean realized that the angel was observing him, waiting for something, like he kept expecting Dean to catch onto this huge joke that had been going on around him.

Dean's eyes narrowed, "You sure? 'Cause your wings have been turning red a lot lately."

There was a twitch across Castiel's lips as though he had thought about smiling and then decided against it, "I know." Was all he said.

"God, you're frustrating." Dean threw up his hands in defeat, sinking back against the pillows.

"Think about it." Castiel said and it was such a sly response that both Winchesters looked around at him in wonderment.

"What?" Dean muttered.

"Red, Dean." The barest hint of exasperation in the angel's voice, "Think about it."

"Red?" Dean looked to Sam who was frowning and then turned back to the angel, "What, red, like, blood?" No response, "Fire?" Nothing, "Uh, dragons?"

Sam started laughing and Dean glared at him. The youngest Winchester just waved a hand through the air, rolled off the bed, and headed for the door, still chuckling to himself. Dean watched him go, confused and annoyed, and sat back with a huff.

"Stop signs." He offered to which Castiel still said nothing, those brilliantly red wings still cascading color and light all over the room, "Crayons. _A_ crayon. Cure for caner—no wait, that's pink. Um, candy? Jawbreakers. Skittles. Come on, give me a clue. Roses? Hearts? Valentine's Da—oh."

And then Castiel actually smiled and his wings spread out wide. Scarlet and magenta tangled with gold and lion's mane yellow, clashing brightly against the hot pink and neon blazes of silver and white that were streaking through the feathers. Arches of light whipped around the room and Dean suddenly found himself pinned to the bed by an angel coated in light. Somewhere in the journey between the wall and the bed, Castiel had lost his coat. And his tie. And his shirt.

He leaned against Dean and pressed his face into the man's neck, breathing in deeply. Words tumbled past his lips in a hot whisper but Dean only caught five. Five very important, burning hot, world-shattering words,

"I love you, Dean Winchester."

Dean wove his fingers into those glorious feathers which were once again spilling out every color ever dreamed of, "Me too."

"Say it." Castiel ground out and his hands rode up Dean's shirt, pushing it aside so he could trace the chest beneath, "I want to hear you say it, Dean."

Dean tried to lean up and kiss him but Castiel twisted away, lips brushing over Dean's collarbone, fingers drawing sigils and warnings and claims against Dean's skin with invisible lines.

"I…" The words got stuck somewhere and Dean choked on them. He tightened his grip on those wings in a sudden fear that if Cas didn't hear what he wanted, then he would simply leave, "Cas, I…God, Castiel…I…"

"Tell me." Castiel urged in a soothing tone, his breath whispering in Dean's ear, "Tell me, tell me, Dean Winchester, I want to hear you say those words. _Please_, I need to hear you say them to me."

Dean fought past all of his mental blocks, all of his guards, all of his safeties. He pushed them aside, tore them down, left them scattered in pieces behind him. Rare was it that Dean Winchester ever told anyone how he really felt. He would show them, he would defend them, but hard pressed was the person who could say they had ever actually heard Dean say that he cared.

But Castiel wanted to hear, needed to hear it. And Dean wanted to tell him, he really did, it was just that terrible aching fear of _losing_ someone that had kept the words at bay. Now all of those defenses against that fear, all of those blockades and walls and bared wire fences meant to keep those things from rushing forth had holes in them.

Dean took a breath, shaking in his throat, turned his head so he could look into Castiel's impossible, blue eyes, and said in a voice that was just above a whisper,

"I love you, Castiel."


	13. Let Me Be Your

_I keep starting these and then never finishing them. _

_Anyway, break from the Hell AU to take a stab at a Heaven AU. Thing. That is quite half-assed. _

_Also, why does the majority of the Destiel fanbase insist on writing in present tense?_

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><p><strong>Let Me Be Your…<strong>

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><p>Castiel and Dean were in the same garrison and they were best friends, had been since God only knew how long (and he probably did). They were low ranking angels, young and inexperienced, sometimes bullied by the higher ranking ones. They were always left to clean the armory, to clean the dishes, clean up after everyone else along with the other lower rankers Samuel, Anna, and Adam.<p>

"This is lame." Dean spat one day, angrily throwing down the rag he had been using to polish a heavy set of garrison armor, "We've been doing this same stupid job for centuries. How are we supposed to earn our wings if we never get the chance to prove ourselves!"

All lower ranking angels came into existence without wings and only a small power of Grace at their fingertips. To earn their wings, they had to be called by the head of all garrisons, Michael, and deemed worthy. Whatever that meant. The whole shebang was rather mysterious and no one was really sure what dictated that an angel should be allowed to rank up at all. Michael had the power to give wings but there were all sorts of rumors that he never actually chose the angels who earned them; the favorite theory was that he spoke to Joshua who spoke to God and God was the one who picked but again, just rumors.

"No one really proves anything, Dean." Sam said with the barest hint of exasperation in his voice as he rubbed at a breastplate, "We just kind of…go."

"Llllaaammmmeee." Dean repeated, tucking his hands behind his back and leaning back against the wall.

"Get back to work!" Anna snapped, "Or you're going to get us all in trouble!"

Dean ignored her and let out a loud yawn as if to prove that he didn't care either way.

"Please get back to work, Dean." Castiel said smoothly from his spot beside the other angel. His blue eyes hadn't left the bracers he was fixing but Dean sat up anyway, swiped up his cloth, and started polishing again.

Adam looked to Sam and Anna who both just shook their heads in disbelief. Dean was borderline disobedient, the most rebellious angel anyone had seen since Lucifer fell though he wasn't anywhere near that level of evil. Oh, he listened to the higher ranking angels and he got out of the way when Raphael or Michael was on the prowl like any good low ranker, but he always did it was a grain of salt, a condescending smirk, a sarcastic remark. Castiel was the only one he listened to without snark, retort, or rebellion. One word from the dark haired angel and Dean obeyed without question.

And in an almost eerie way, Castiel did the same for Dean in a way he never did for his higher ups. Castiel was the perfect soldier; he always obeyed, he never talked back, he never questioned, and he followed orders to the letter. In that sense, he was almost Dean's opposite. However, whereas Dean went about his orders with as much rebellious snark as he could muster, Castiel went about his with a cold, dispassionate edge. He listened, he obeyed, but he didn't _like_ to. He always had the air that he could be doing something else, something much more enjoyable, something that was far more important. The only time he didn't seem like that was when he was doing something for Dean.

Castiel and Dean. The two oddest angels anyone had ever seen.

A few more hours of grudging cleaning went by. Occasionally talk would float up and a short conversation would be had. But mostly there was quiet. Even Dean grew tired of his own griping and fell silent.

Then, without warning, the armory door opened and Raphael strode in, great golden wings folded against his back. Immediately, the low rankers leapt to their feet and saluted (Castiel looking over Raphael's shoulder and Dean with a slight smirk on his lips).

"Castiel." Raphael's voice was a distant rumble of thunder, "Come with me."

The quiet that fell over the room was heavier and colder than the quiet from before. Dean glanced at Castiel but the blue-eyed angel only blinked and lowered his arm. As he moved towards Raphael, he brushed Dean's shoulder. And then, just like that, he was gone. The door closed with a sharp snap. No one moved for a long moment and then, as if caught in slow motion, the low rankers all knelt down and went back to their tasks.

Except for Dean. He looked at the armor he was still supposed to polishing and then to the half mended bracers on the floor. Without a word, he stalked out the door and did not look back. No one tried to stop him.

It was nearly a month before anyone saw Castiel again.

Dean was lounging in the fluffy clouds of the Outer Reaches, right on Heavens borders where blue and white mingle into a silver sea that washes down into the human realm as all of God's love and grace. It was basically Heaven's version of a beach and Dean had taken to sulking there, missing his best friend like an aching hole in his heart.

He was stirring up a small puff of cloud, twisting it into a spiral with his finger, his bare feet getting washed by the silver waves as he lay stretched out on his back. When he heard footsteps approaching, he looked around lazily only to bolt to his feet with a happy cry.

"Cas! Where have you been! I thought you'd gotten into trouble! What did Raphael wa—!"

But Dean, who had been running towards his friend with his arms outstretched, froze, arms swinging back to his sides, a strange expression on his face.

Protruding from Castiel's back in a graceful, folded arch, catching the diamond light of the silver sea, was a pair of perfect white wings that gleamed with a hard edge of gorgeous silver. Castiel saw the look on Dean's face and stopped walking, brow furrowing slightly.

"Dean?"

"You…got your wings." Dean muttered and realized he was jealous. Undeniably, burningly jealous.

"Yes." Castiel said simply.

Neither of them moved and then Dean asked,

"Why?"

"I'm not…sure." The hesitant response made Dean's jealousy flare.

"Yes you do." He growled, hands curling into fists at his sides, "It's because they think you're better than me."

"Dean—."

"What, you think you're better than me too?"

"No, I didn't—."

"It's not fair!"

"Dean!"

Castiel was suddenly on top of him, pinning him to the cloud-beach, wings spread wide overhead, his face inches away from Dean's, "I did not ask for this, it was simply given to me. I don't want you to be jealous. I don't want you to stop being my friend. You are not a low ranker to me, Dean, you are my equal."

Dean scowled but he could feel his anger slowly drifting away with Castiel's close proximity, "But you've got wings."

"So? That does not change my feelings towards you."

"F-feelings?"

Castiel hauled Dean into his arms and those wings curled around them surrounding them both in a curtain of white-silver and refracting streaks of light. Dean swallowed, his green eyes inches away from Castiel's impossibly blue ones.

"Mine." Castiel said and pressed a hand against Dean's shoulder. There was a flare of light, a white hot pain that was somehow a good kind of pain, and Dean was suddenly aware of Castiel in a way he never had been. He could feel Castiel's Grace inside him, a cool pool of logic and wisdom and power and loyalty and _love_.

Love for Dean.

"Castiel…" Dean breathed and then, without either of them being aware, they were rolling across the beach, wrapped in feathers and arms and kisses. Lips were locked together, fingers tangled in hair and wings, legs trapped against one another, Grace beating against soul and it was such a glorious feeling that neither of them cared who saw. They splashed into the surf at the edge of the silver sea and Catiel's wings suddenly flared out, sending a cascade of diamonds into the air and Dean fell for him all over again.

They spent the rest of the day together on the beach.

The next day, Dean was called to see Michael.

When he returned, he had a pair of silver wings that were lanced with streaks of burnished bronze and shone like precious gems.

He and Castiel accomplished very little after they discovered what sort of things they could do with their wings.


	14. A Touch of Envy

_Coming right on the heels of me just wondering why people write in the present tense. One shots I'm okay with, it gets a little confusing on multi-chapter fics, though. Anyway...  
><em>

_I wanted to try something without any dialogue. And I like SuperWho. If you don't then, well, I guess just skip this one. But SuperWhoLock…totally head-canon like nobody's business. (grins)_

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><p><strong>A Touch of Envy<strong>

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><p>Dean knows he's probably being silly about the whole thing but, really, it's hard not to blame him.<p>

He's sulking in the control of the Tardis, leaning against one of the railings, arms crossed sullenly over his chest. Sam is off exploring (again) which leaves Dean and Castiel alone in the room. With the Doctor.

Dean was never very taken with the man—Time Lord—and was extremely distrustful when they first met. After everything he had been through, he could hardly be blamed for that. But, as time went by, he'd come to trust the Doctor and view him as a friend. So when the Doctor calls on them for help, well, Dean's rather willing to go for it. After all, the Time Lord had helped them out plenty of times, even if he wouldn't take them back in time to save John and Mary.

But that's not why Dean's sulking. No, Dean's sulking because the Doctor and Castiel have hit it off like old high school buddies and are getting along in a simply _fantastic_ manner. Dean's watching them from across the control room now, talking and gesturing, the Doctor animatedly explaining some sort of quantum physics time travelly thing while Castiel nods along in agreement, occasionally throwing in his own two cents.

And Dean is totally _not_ jealous of how much attention the two are paying to each other. He's not jealous that Cas is having an intelligent conversation with another man (alien), he's not jealous about the way Cas's eyes lit up when he first saw the inside of the Tardis, he's not jealous of the way the Doctor got all excited when he realized that Cas could actually _hear_ the Tardis (because apparently it's alive, what the hell), and he's definitely, _definitely_ not jealous of how content Castiel looks when he's having long conversations with the Time Lord.

No. He's definitely _not_ jealous.

Except then the inside of the Tardis is suddenly flooded with every color in the universe and that, _that_ is the last straw.

Castiel's wings are Dean's, they belong to Dean, Dean's the only one who can see them so they're his just as he belongs to Castiel. But by the way the Doctor's glittering brown eyes are following the curve of one of those glorious manifestations of light and color, it's quite obvious that he can see them to.

Okay, _now_ Dean's jealous. Really, really jealous.

The Doctor's babbling, going on and on about light waves and refracting and bending and space and stars but Dean's focus is on Castiel's face. It's blank but by now, Dean knows all the subtle movements and twitches that make Cas easy to read. There's nothing pressing at the moment, some amusement that's probably from the Doctor's babbling and a slight relaxation that comes from allowing his wings to spread. And, granted, the inside of the Tardis is massive and Cas has got more than enough room to spread his wings out as wide as they can go. Dean knows they get bigger when Cas is in a temper and the lights change into thunder clouds and lightning and fire and it's quite possibly the most badass thing Dean's ever seen. He smirks to himself as he thinks abut it but the smirk quickly falls away when he sees the Doctor whipping out a familiar device.

That stupid sonic screwdriver.

His Royal Pain-In-The-Assness doesn't believe in using guns and Dean's caught him frowning at the Winchesters on more than one occasion. But that screwdriver makes the most obnoxious noise and Dean thinks it's a prissy, pretentious thing that looks like a screwed up sex toy and is completely useless. It can't even do wood. How pointless is that?

Castiel, on the other hand, gladly stretches a wing out and the Doctor flicks his device up and down it before peering at the sonic screwdriver as though it's telling him something. That man and his toys; Dean thinks he's almost like a child. He'd said so once to Sam, dropping mocking comments about how the Doctor talks to his Tardis and croons over her and dotes on her, until Sam happily pointed out that Dean was the same way with his "darling" Impala. Needless to say, Sam got a split lip and a solid warning about comparisons from that one and Dean stubbornly refused to say anything on the matter when asked about it later.

He's still watching them from across the room, not even bothering to hide the disapproving frown on his face now. In his mind, he's comparing Castiel flashing his wings about to a married woman walking down the street without any clothes on. They're private, they're intimate, they're _his_. He saw them first, he touched them first, he claimed them as his own and Castiel let him. He can deal with it now because the Doctor's just looking but as soon as that Time Lord starts making a move to—.

Oh.

No.

He did not just run his fingers over Castiel's feathers.

That's it. That's the straw that broke the camel's back. Dean's had it.

He's across the room and shoving the Doctor away to stand in front of Castiel before he knew he could even move that fast. The Doctor looks rather taken aback and Dean can feel Cas' disapproving stare boring into him but he doesn't care.

Nobody touches Castiel's wings. Nobody except Dean. He's already been over this with Sam, maybe he needs to start setting up some ground rules when it comes to Cas and his wings. Hell, he'd already _told_ Cas how he felt about other people and wing touching. But apparently the Doctor's a different case. Well, not anymore.

And of course Castiel tries to start lecturing him and says his name in that ever-so-slightly-threatening, condescending, barely disappointed and kind of sort of exasperated tone of his and Dean bristles and tells him to shut up. And the Doctor's just looking completely baffled as if he doesn't understand what he's done. So Dean explains it to him. Kindly. In a Dean Winchester sort of way.

You do not ask to see Castiel's wings, an angel's wings are not for anyone's eyes but other angels. And Dean. It doesn't matter that the Doctor is a Time Lord who has saved the universe and been across time and space because those wings don't belong to him and they never will. And then the Doctor's smiling and that just makes Dean all the more flustered because what the hell does he have to smile about, he's in a fuck load of trouble. So he keeps talking only now he's yelling because those wings, those glorious wings, are the most precious of things, they are Castiel's biggest, most glorious secret and Dean adores them as much as he adores his younger brother.

And he doesn't say it out loud but Cas is the only one he's confessed his every feeling and secret to and the Doctor, no, he can't be anywhere near that. Not this crazy, wild, mad man with a flying box, not near Dean's solid, stoic pillar of light, no, just no. No to the looking and definitely no to the touching. Cas keeps trying to get a word in but Dean's ignoring him in favor of letting it all out on the Doctor. And he's not holding back. He lets the Time Lord know exactly what he thinks about other people—_especially_ ancient aliens—touching Cas' wings.

He's only stopped by a simple question.

The rest of his rant dies somewhere between his lungs and his lips and he just stands there with his face flushed and his mouth hanging open like an idiot. The Doctor's just smiling at him in an easy way as if this was a question he usually asked everyone and Dean's so put off by the abruptness of it that he can't seem to answer.

Cas saves him the trouble and answers with the truth in a usual Castiel fashion. Yes, they are in love, yes, they are soulmates, and yes, they do share a deep and profound bond. Castiel is the only one who could make a relationship sounded like it came from a text book and still be horribly cheesy about it at the same time.

The Doctor's smile widens and he skips around the control panel of the Tardis, throwing levers and hitting buttons, and shouting something that sounds vaguely like French at the top of his lungs. Dean will never understand him and he's not sure if he wants to. There's something else behind that happiness, he decides, a deep, longing ache hiding in the darkness at the back of the Time Lord's eyes and he thinks he knows what it is but has learned by now that asking a question of the man will never lead to a straight answer. Besides, rule one, the Doctor lies.

So instead of trying to figure out the deep mysteries of the universe's biggest lunatic, he turns to Castiel, ready to give him a nice, long, Dean Winchester style lecture about wings. But Cas is giving him _that look_, the one that says "if you don't let this I'll smite you on the spot or, at the very least, withhold wing touching for a very long time" so Dean lets it go. Let the ancient, mystical beings fiddle and prod at each other all they want, he decides, still with a fiery hint of jealousy at the thought of someone else's hands in Castiel's feathers.

Just as long as there's no kissing.


	15. Flick of the Wrist

_Have some adorablely corny thing._

_And in honor of it being Valentine's Day, I'll be posting some of my Destiel fan art that I've been hiding in my pocket like an ashamed little girl onto Tumblr. If you want to see, check out hosekiasylum . tumblr . com._

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><p><strong>Flick of the Wrist<strong>

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><p>Castiel, it quickly became apparent, liked to figure things out through touch.<p>

He liked to run his fingers over things multiple times, examining their texture and shape, and sometimes he would even rub his cheek on something like a cat. Sam and Dean found it hilarious but tried not to let that show in front of Castiel. He'd been deeply offended when they had laughed at him the first time.

"Touch is important to angels," He commented rather hotly, brow furrowing in the closest thing to angry embarrassment he displayed, "It is how we communicate that which we cannot express with…words. Our Grace and our wings are far more sensitive than human skin and nerves. Touch is how we see the world around us in greater detail, it tells us things we would never have known simply from sight, and it can display a more…profound bond."

That had been before Dean had seen Cas' wings.

Now that he could, the oldest Winchester realized that Castiel wasn't just using his hands (and occasionally face) to feel things. He was using his wings too. Any time they went someplace new, those wings would unfold like flower petals and the tips would brush lightly over chairs, walls, random objects, and sometimes even people. Dean didn't like that last bit but it had only happened once or twice so he could live with it.

But the things Castiel liked to prod the most with his wings were anything to do with the Winchesters.

When he was talking to Sam or Dean about a hunt, he would sometimes spread a wing out to lay it across one of the motel room beds, it didn't matter who had been sleeping in it. When they got up from a chair they'd been sitting in, his light-feathers would brush across the seat briefly before withdrawing. He would stick the tips of his wings into their bags or their shoes they left sitting by the door when he thought they couldn't see, he would brush them against glasses or beer bottles that had been drunk from, and half-fold a wing over Sam's towering stacks of books or the open lid of his laptop like he was cradling it.

He especially liked to touch the Impala.

It had been the Winchester brothers' home for the majority of their lives and Dean had put so much love and care into it that it was basically part of the family. More than once Dean had caught Cas standing beside the car and running his wings over the sleek black surface, or sitting inside and pressing his face against the back of the driver's seat while his wings filled up the rest of the interior with light and color. To Sam, who couldn't see the wings, it just looked as if Castiel was have a staring contest with things. But objects weren't the only thing Castiel touched.

Sam had learned to recognize that warm breeze and the small, hot electric tingle that danced lightly across his skin when Cas was waving his wings about again. He might not have been able to see them but he could feel them, sense them crowding a room or the back of the Impala. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling but Sam vividly remembered the night he had tried to restrain Cas' wings and so avoided responding to their touch. If Cas felt anything about this, he did not express it. So Sam would silently allow Cas to brush those wings over arms, back, head, and not say anything about it.

Dean, on the hand, thoroughly enjoyed the experience and didn't seemed to mind one bit when Castiel would wrap a wing around Sam's shoulder in a protective manner. In fact, there were times when it seemed like he was encouraging the behavior.

But more than anything else, Dean liked it when Castiel's wings touched him.

Sam knew when those wings were brushing across his brother's shoulders because an honest to god smile would spread slowly across Dean's features, the kind of smile that was generally rare and hard to find. It was still annoying and embarrassing when Dean fondled Cas' wings in public but Sam could live with it too see his brother really, truly smile.

For his part, Dean probably wasn't even aware that his smile was genuine, only that he was enjoying the experience. He'd never given much thought to Cas and his wing-touching habits, just accepted them and loved them and cherished every moment of them.

Until one morning during a hot shower when the shower curtain rustled and a wingtip of bright red swirled with shades of gold, violet, and silver-white peeked into the shower.

"Cas." Dean said in a half warning, half amused voice. The wingtip withdrew.

But a little bit later, as he was sticking his face under the water and washing the shampoo from his hair, something warm and electric trailed its way up the inside of his leg.

"Castiel." Dean said firmly, spitting out water and rubbing it from his eyes as he stepped away. Again, the wing withdrew. Dean glared at the shower curtain for a while and then huffed and went back to cleaning himself.

A clink of rings on the metal bar overhead. Dean looked up in time to see a wing arching over the top of the shower rod and sidestepped it before it could begin prodding his hair. Instead, he reached up and, with wet, soapy hands, grabbed a large handful of feathers. There was a gentle tug on the other end of the wing but Dean kept a firm grip. The light-energy-color tingled against his skin. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he wondered if this was what it was like to hold onto a rainbow.

"Dean," Said Cas' voice, muffled by the shower curtain and the running water, "Please release my wing."

"Mm, nope." Dean replied, greens eyes flitting around the shower to watch colors bounce and refract off the tiled walls. The water spraying from the faucet captured the light and rainbows and it looked as though Dean was bathing in molten gold and fire rather than tap water.

"Please." Another tug, this one slightly harder than the first. Dean decided to play along and tugged back. There was a startled silence and then the wing in his jerked to the side. But Dean had been wrestling monsters all his life and kept a firm hold.

"I'm not going to let you go." He called.

"My shoulder is beginning to ache."

"Shoulda' thought of that before you went around poking people in the shower."

"Dean—."

"Why _do_ you do that anyway?"

A pause and then Cas said, "History. Now release my wing." Another tug.

"Uh-uh, that's not an answer. Come on, Cas, you know better 'in to pull that cryptic shit on me. What do you mean?"

Another pause, this one longer, thoughtful, "It is…difficult to explain. I told you once that one angel touching another's wings is a very intimate gesture."

"Yeah."

"Touch, in general, is…is a way for us…we can see the world differently than humans. In a vessel, we are generally restricted to human eye sight, apart from such things as soul gazing and the occasional mind reading, as you call it." A shift, the feathers made the rings on the shower rod clink again, "Our Grace seeps into every part of our being and we can still send it out through our vessel's limbs, if need be. But our wings tell us so much more than a simple brush of the fingers ever could."

"Like what?" Dean asked, genuinely curious. His grip on Castiel's wing had slackened but the angel had not removed it from the shower. The light-color of his feathers was beginning to become misted in tiny droplets like dew and they bent the colorful display even more.

"Emotions." It sounded as though Cas was trying to keep his voice level, "Our wings—our Grace—can pick them up like…like…"

"Like radio signals?"

"I…suppose that is an accurate comparison. But we use our wings to do it."

"Is that why you keep touching me and Sam? Because you want to know how we're feeling? You could just ask." Dean's arm was beginning to hurt but he didn't let go of Cas' wing.

"You're emotions are complex and layered. You hide your true feelings. Both of you do." There was a vague, somewhat sad note in the angel's voice, "On the surface, you can be pleasant or violent but underneath you hide so many things. I am just…looking out for your well-being."

"So you were poking me while I was naked in the shower?"

"You were relaxed, at ease, I was simply—."

"Why don't you come in here and I'll show you how relaxed I am."

Silence.

Then the wing was abruptly yanked from Dean's grasp and he stumbled forward. He would have fallen through the shower curtain if an angel hadn't appeared before him and wrapped the hunter in his arms. They both fell back against the opposite wall, awash in color and water and light. Cas pressed his lips hard against Dean's, hands running through the oldest Winchester's hair and sticking into haphazard spikes.

"Mmph, Cas," Dean murmured past the angel's rough kiss, "You're still wearing your clothes."

"I do not care." Wings flared and molten silver splashed with gold and fire and sunlight across the walls before one curled back in to push between Dean's bare back and cold shower wall. It pushed them even closer together and that hot, electric sensation warmed Dean's skin like a warm fire,

"I only want you, Dean Winchester. Now and forever."

Dean smirked, resting his forehead against Castiel's as the hot water poured over them and steamed and light and color swirled around their intertwined figures, "You and your cheesy one liners." He looped an arm around the angel's waist, his other hand twisting into the feathers of Cas' free wing,

"Now. Forever. And until the end of time."


	16. Feather Bed

_Just an FYI for those of you who are unaware, I am not around on the weekends because of no home internets. Sad but true. I'm also in college with three studio classes so kind of busy. So if I don't update in a while, there's why. This is also why I was posting "One Wing in the Fire" here instead of giving it a separate…thing because I was afraid of dropping it and just having it sit there and not doing anything. But, if a lot of you guys would rather see it in its own story, I can go ahead and do that. Now enough of this news flash stuff._

_Let's do some stupid, silly, crack stuff and call it good. 'Cept I can't write crack. Anyway._

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><p><strong>Feather Bed<strong>

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><p>It started with Castiel stealing the covers off of every motel room bed that Dean and Sam spent the night in.<p>

At first, it didn't register that that was what was going on. They'd pack their things, take them out to the Impala, and then return to the room to make sure they hadn't missed anything to see that the messy sheets and blankets had gone missing, sometimes along with the towels. They kept assuming that it was the housekeeping. Very fast housekeeping.

Until they caught Cas at it.

The Winchesters stepped through the motel door and Sam bumped into Dean because his brother had stopped dead a few feet inside. Sam, more than tall enough to peer over his older sibling's head, felt his jaw drop and his expression matched Dean's almost exactly.

Standing in the middle of the room, looking for all the world like a dog that had been caught going through the garbage can, was the angel Castiel with the blankets of the motel beds bundled up in his arms. For a long moment, no one moved. Then Dean managed a completely confused,

"Cas?"

And in a flurry of wings, the angel was gone, taking the covers with him.

Dean looked back at Sam, his expression a mixture of things, "What the hell…was that?"

Sam didn't have an answer. But the bed sheets from the next five motel rooms all vanished along with towels, the occasional curtain, a rug that had been in front of one of the TV stands, and, on one occasion, the knitted picture of a cat in a frame. Neither Dean nor Sam could explain this odd behavior but both agreed that, when it finally ceased, it was all for the better.

Except then, two days later, all of Dean's socks were missing.

Needless to say, the oldest Winchester was not pleased and roared Castiel's name to the, well, to the Heavens, calling him a whole slew of rude things until the angel finally appeared.

"Where the hell do you get off taking my socks!" Dean shouted, stomping up to Castiel and prodding him hard in the chest.

Cas blinked and tilted his head to the side, "I am in need of them." Was all he said. Dean started ranting again about how they didn't have the money to go out and buy ten new packs of socks but Sam was casting a careful eye over Castiel. The angel looked harassed and not a little bit flustered. His trenchcoat was askew and almost hanging off of one shoulder, his tie was crooked, his hair was more mussed than usual, and…he was missing a shoe.

"Cas," Sam cut in to Dean's rant when his brother paused to take a breath, "What have you been up to?"

"Nothing." The angel said, switching that solid blue gaze to Sam instead.

"You're missing a shoe."

Everyone looked down. Castiel raised his stockinged foot off the floor and wiggled his toes through the fabric. He made a flat noise that seemed to say 'well, would you look at that, guys, I seemed to have lost my shoe somewhere, isn't that interesting?' and set his foot back down again. Then, without a farewell word or parting glance at either of them, he vanished again.

"What is this! What is wrong with him!" Dean glared at the spot where the angel had been as if this would make him reappear.

"Maybe it's his angelic monthly and he has a craving for his lover's socks." Sam said and then laughed, ducking as Dean hurled the television remote at him.

* * *

><p>No one saw Cas for a week and he wouldn't answer their calls—phone or otherwise. Dean went from frustration to anger to pissy-I'm-pretending-not-to-notice to downright worry. He thumbed his phone whenever he got the chance, sometimes calling and sometimes just staring at the number on the screen. Sam had even caught him on his knees beside his bed, praying like a kid for Castiel. Any other time, he would have taken the opportunity to mock his older brother but Sam was worried about Cas too. The guy was an angel and he could take care of himself but it was odd for him not to show up, especially when it was Dean calling.<p>

Cas always answered when Dean called.

By Friday, Dean was about ready to do a summoning, Sam could see it written all over his brother's face. In fact, he was pretty sure that Dean was digging through his bag through the appropriate ingredients when there was a rush of wings and a soft breeze.

"Cas!" Dean shouted as he spun around, "It's about goddamn time you—!" And he froze because it wasn't Cas.

"Sorry, Dean-o, I'm not _your_ angel." Gabriel had his trademark smirk on as he leaned against the wall, "But I have been looking for him. You haven't seen him, have you?"

Sam saw the raging argument building on Dean's lips and quickly said, "Not for a week now. He's been acting…really strangely." When Gabriel quirked an eyebrow in question, Sam continued, "First he was taking stuff from our motel rooms—towels and bedsheets and stuff—and then he…took all of Dean's socks."

Gabriel blinked and then threw his head back and outright laughed. Dean frowned and glanced at Sam who shrugged and looked back at Gabriel. When the Archangel finally decided to get a hold of himself, he wiped the tears from his eyes, sniffed, and looked at Dean.

"You two are an item, yeah?" Dean huffed out a nod, crossing his arms as he glared at Gabriel, "He's just—" The Archangel stifled another laugh, "He's just making the necessary preparations."

"And what does that mean?" Dean snapped, quickly loosing his patience with the other angel.

"Oh, no, no, no." Gabriel waved his hand through the air, still looking like he was trying to stop himself from bursting out laughing again, "I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. Send me pictures! I'll start making a scrapbook!" He straightened up, mouth still quirked in a half-manic grin, "Just know, Dean, that whatever happens, you have my blessing to keep making hot angel sex to my little brother."

Dean was already unfolding his arms and striding forward to start throwing punches but Gabriel had already winged away. His laughter echoed in his wake. Sam avoided talking to Dean for a good hour in case his brother still felt like throwing punches at things.

* * *

><p>What Castiel was preparing for came to light a few days later.<p>

Dean was still stung that Cas hadn't been answering their calls and he ended up either being extremely mopey or extremely grumpy. Sam just stayed out of his way though he was starting to wonder as well. Gabriel had been rather vague about what Castiel was preparing for, only hinting that it might involve Dean. Sam trusted Cas but the angel had been acting very strangely so it was reasonable he should have worried about his brother's safety if Cas was starting to lose it.

He needn't have worried.

Dean had just exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist after a long shower, and Sam was just starting to bitch at him for using all the hot water when there was a flutter of wings and Castiel appeared right between the two of them. He stared hard at Dean who took a step back in surprise before remembering that he was supposed to be angry with the angel.

"Cas, what the hell? Did you forget how to answer your phone? Or did you—."

"You are not clothed. Excellent." Castiel cut in and that brought Dean up short.

Red blossomed across the oldest Winchester's face and he looked over Cas' shoulder at Sam who was simply staring open mouthed at the both of them. Dean looked back at Castiel who was still wearing that ever impassively blank expression, "Um, wanna run that by be again?"

"Clothing is not mandatory." Cas said as if he was commenting on the weather, "It is better without. You need to come with me. Now."

"Actually I'd really like to get some—."

"No." Castiel reached a hand out, grabbed Dean's arm, and vanished, leaving Sam alone in the motel room.

The empty towel collapsed to the floor.

* * *

><p>Dean didn't know where Cas had dragged him to but it looked like someone's basement. Someone's abandoned basement with cracks running up the walls, the heavy smell of mold and dust hiding underneath the scent of the flowers scattered in jugs and vases all over the room, and the only light was pathetic, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling that was as naked as Dean.<p>

The hunter wrapped his arms around himself and turned on the spot, looking for Cas. When he did find the angel, he froze, eyes wide, almost unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

Pushed into one corner of the basement, made up of all of the blankets, curtains, towels, rugs, and socks, was a giant…nest. Cas must have used angel mojo to weave it all together because it looked pretty impossible; a great, bowl shaped mound of fabric. And sitting right in the middle of it, sans all of his clothes, was Castiel, wings out and looking expectantly at Dean. Lights danced across the walls and colors splashed across the floor.

"Cas…what is this?"

Cas' blank expression suddenly screwed itself up into something like he was trying to remember something just on the tip of his tongue, "It is a…a nest."

Dean tried his best not to laugh, "Like, seriously, like a bird nest? Cas, what the hell?"

Cas frowned and his wings flared wide, "I saw on the television that some birds will take shed feathers or leaves and twigs from trees their desired mates have nested in to build a nest for both of them." He cocked his head to the side, wings still spread out so that the light-feathers brushed the walls and left glittering trails of gold and stardust across the aged cement, "I am expressing my desire to be your one and only mate, Dean Winchester."

To Dean's credit, he didn't laugh. He just chuckled and padded across the cold cement floor to clamber carefully into the nest, "Cas you are such an idiot." He took one of the angel's hands in his own and pressed it against the brand on his shoulder, "I'm pretty sure that when you _marked my soul_ as yours, I was going to be your one and only no matter what happened."

A deeper frown, this one of confusion and misunderstanding, slowly creased Castiel's forehead, "But I thought a mating ritual was—."

"Cas, do I _look_ like a bird to you?" Dean cut in, leaning forward so that his nose was almost touching the angel's. The nest was surprisingly warm in comparison to the rest of the basement.

Castiel blinked and then shook his head slowly before planting a light kiss across Dean's lips, "I am sorry, Dean, I did not mean to compare you to a small avian creature."

"Yep, I'm really insulted now. Guess you'll have to make it up to me."

"How?"

Dean grinned, "I can think of a couple of ways."

There was an unexplained thunderstorm over a small town in Arizona that night with furious claps or thunder, strong winds, and brilliant flashes of electric blue lightning that eventually shorted out a whole three blocks.

Later, there was another unexplained upsurge of bad weather in North Carolina when a hurricane ripped its way across half the state.

Castiel had discovered that Gabriel had lied to him when he'd said birds and humans had similar mating rituals.


	17. Clipped Wings and a Dity Old Trenchcoat

_Future!Dean and Cas time. Angst and fluff. This is probably completely over the top, feel free to ignore how utterly ridiculous and teenage-level-angsty this is going to get._

_By the way, "One Wing in the Fire" has its own fic now. If you want to keep reading it, you can go read it there. It will no longer be updated here._

* * *

><p><strong>A Pair of Clipped Wings and a Dirty Old Trench Coat<strong>

* * *

><p>The future that Zachariah had sent Dean to was one of many possible ones but it was the one he thought would do the most damage.<p>

In another future, Sam had still said yes, the demon virus had still swept across the world, and the small pockets of humanity still clustered around campfires in the dead of night to try and survive. In another future, Chuck had still ceased to be a prophet, Bobby had still died, and Castiel had still been abandoned by his brothers and fallen.

But in another future, Dean had not hardened and shunned those he cared about for fear of becoming too close and losing them all over again. In another future, he had not run suicide missions that killed half of his men, he did not shoot a person simply because he merely _suspected_ them of being infected, and he did not discard Castiel to drugs and women and sleepless nights haunted by memories of what he used to be.

In another future, Dean was a guardian. Instead of charging into a war he had no possibility of winning, he protected the humans in his care, only leaving for supply runs. In a strange, bittersweet and broken sort of way…he was happy.

It was early in the morning, too early for much light. Dean's sleep crusted eyes cracked open slowly. The curtains were still drawn across the windows, the thin fabric sifting the pale light into a dull glow that left the room mostly in shadows. Dean rolled over sleepily and threw his arm around Castiel.

Only Cas wasn't there and his side of the bed was cold.

"Mmg, Cas…?" Dean grunted, kneading a fist into his eyes as he squirmed underneath the tangled blanket on top of him. He yawned and stretched, glancing around the bedroom but the fallen angel was nowhere in sight. The Winchester swung himself out of bed, bare feet tingling against the cold wooden floor, and stretched again until his back popped. Then he stood and, clad only a worn pair of pajama pants, padded across the room to the door.

It was already cracked and whispered quietly open with the barest hint of a squeak. Dean stepped down the hall, rubbing a hand through his hair and looking into the rooms as he went. The bathroom door was open, the room beyond empty, and the same was true for the storage room and the sitting room. But he found Cas in the kitchen, sitting on one of the worn out chairs at the table with his back to the doorless entrance. His bare shoulders were hunched and his head was bowed and, as curled and taunt as he was, Dean could clearly make out that scars on his back.

They weren't battle scars and there were times that Dean wished they were because that would have been easier, a lot easier, to deal with.

Castiel had been half mad when Dean had finally found him again after the disaster of Sam saying yes to Lucifer. The angel had not just fallen, he had been cast aside. His brothers had fled the earth, seeing no reason to remain when this was a fight they would surely lose. And they had left Cas behind. Already a rebel, already half-lost because of his compassion and love for the Winchester brothers, already covered in the stink of humanity, they had shunned him. When the angels had fled, Cas had tried to follow but they had pushed him down and left him there.

Crushed, abandoned, and powerless, Castiel had spent a bitter year wandering pointlessly, not quite sure what to do with himself, unable to find Dean, unable to do much of anything. Dean found him wasting away in the ruins of the city, bleeding to death from the cuts on his back. It had taken a while to nurse him back to health—both in body and mind—but when he was finally stable, Dean had grabbed him roughly by his shoulders and yelled that if he ever tried to do that stupid shit again, he'd kill him himself.

And Cas, poor broken and fallen Cas, had cracked the barest hint of a smile.

Dean stepped into the kitchen and pressed his hand against the fallen angel's back, the lumpy scars ridged reminders under his palm. Cas had been trying to find is wings. He'd thought that sliver of broken metal might be enough to cut them out. He'd been lucky none of the infected had found him bleeding like that.

He'd been lucky about a lot of things.

"You okay, Cas?" Dean asked, fingers rubbing against the base of Castiel's neck.

"Yes." Came the gruff reply and then, "No. I…Dean, I dreamed of falling again. I dreamed of falling and of my wings burning and…" His voice hitched and he would not look at the hunter.

"Hey, its cool." Dean dragged the other chair around so he could sit next to his fallen angel, "I still have nightmares about the day Sam—about that day."

"I know." Cas answered and this time he did turn his head, brilliant blue eyes locking with Dean's vibrant green ones, "You had one last night, I heard you talking."

"I thought you fell asleep before me."

A small, sly smile turned up the corners of Cas' mouth, "I let you think a lot of things."

Dean punched him lightly on the shoulder, "Fine, I'll let you keep thinking that you let me think things. For now, I'm making breakfast." With that, he got to his feet and made for the cupboard but a quick hand snagged the back of his pajama pants and tugged them down, revealing the bare skin beneath.

"Cas!"

"Mine." Castiel said firmly and pushed a kiss into the base of Dean's spine before he let him go, "I want coffee."

"We're out of coffee. There's a supply run tomorrow, though, I'll try and find some when we go."

Cas made a strangled, yawning sort of noise and Dean looked over his shoulder to see the fallen angel stretching, arms raised to the ceiling and chest thrust forward as his spine crackled. The hunter's green eyes flitted over the scars on Castiel's front. Failing to cut the wings from his back, upon his rescue from the city and his awakening in the camp, Cas had grabbed the nearest sharp object and tried to carve himself a new pair of wings. On his chest.

For something that was done in a state of half-madness, it was remarkable how steady Cas' hand had been. He'd only managed to get one wing done before someone had come in, discovered what he was doing, and stopped him. But it was well done, nonetheless, even Dean (as much as he hated what those scars stood for) couldn't deny that.

An arching curve of white etched from underneath Castiel's collarbone, down his side, over his ribs, to curl to halt just above his hip. The 'feathers' were intricate twists and spirals intertwined with ancient lettering that Cas had told Dean was a language older even than Enochian, the language of angels and the language God had used to build the Earth and the cosmos. Chuck had called it Art Nouveau-ish and had earned a glare from Castiel for it. Whatever it was, Dean both loved and hated it.

"You've got that look on your face again." Castiel's rough edged voice drew Dean from his thoughts.

"What?" The hunter quickly busied himself with finding the loaf of stale bread and sticking it in a saucepan over the open stovetop.

"The look," Cas continued and there was a creak from the chair as he shifted his weight, "That says you would say 'yes' in a heartbeat if Michael ever deigned to ask."

Dean ducked his head, eyes shadowed beneath lowered lids. His shoulders and back tensed, his movements became quick and jarringly sharp, and didn't say anything in response to Castiel's remark.

Given the chance, Dean would have said 'yes' if just to try and set things straight. Hell, after what happened with Sam, he had screamed yes to the Heavens until he was blue in the face. No one had answered and the world had collapsed around his ears, crumbled beneath his feet, and left him stranded with nothing to cling to. He'd been as alone as Cas and it had taken a lot of alcohol and effort to drag himself out of the rut he'd found himself in and try to do something useful, to try and save humanity the way he'd used to.

Warm, dry hands suddenly slid around his waist and a face pressed into his back between his shoulder blades,

"Don't think about it too hard," Cas whispered, hot breath flitting across Dean's skin, "You'll burn the toast."

"If that was a joke, it didn't make any sense." Dean said but his voice was still hard and he hated himself for that. In another future, one he was completely unaware of, another Dean had told another Castiel to leave and never come back in that tone of voice.

"It wasn't a joke. The toast it burning." Cas said lightly.

"Shit!" Dean jerked the saucepan off the burner and dumped the toast onto the countertop, dragging Castiel along with him because the fallen angel hadn't let go of his waist. Dean could feel the scrape of Cas' scars across his back as he shuffled around, trying to find a place to put the hot pan and turn the stove off at the same time.

"Cas, can you please let go so I can finish cooking?" The hunter finally asked once he'd managed to turn off the burner and put the fire out.

"Spoilsport." Castiel muttered but pulled away. Dean looked over his shoulder to see Cas padding out of the room on bare feet and sighed. Both of them were pretty messed up, he decided—a fallen angel that dreamed of burning and a broken hunter that saw only failure. What a fucked up pair they made.

He turned back to the slightly burnt toast, decided it was fine and the slices on a chipped plate in the middle of the worn out table. Then he filled two mugs with water from the jug in the fridge, pulled some rabbit from the freezer to defrost for lunch and dinner, and ran his hands up and down his bare arms at the chill. It made him realize how cold it was starting to get. Winter would set in soon; they needed more blankets and firewood if they were going to make in through.

There was the sound of footsteps and the creak of a chair and Dean turned back around to see that Castiel had taken a seat at the table and pulled the plate towards him. He was wearing his old trench coat over his pajama pants and it sent a pang through Dean because it made him remember when things had seemed so much simpler. He didn't say anything, though, just took his seat beside Cas and quietly ate his breakfast. It was silent for a long while.

Cas finished his toast first, licked the crumbs from his fingers, and turned to stare at Dean with those impossibly blue eyes that were a little dull and ragged around the edges. Just like the trench coat. Dean pretended he didn't notice and slowly finished off his breakfast, scooping up the plate and empty mugs and dumping them into the sink to be dealt with later. When he returned his attention to the kitchen, Castiel had left. Dean frowned and walked across the short hall to the sitting room. Cas was stretched out on the couch, humming softly to himself, eyes closed, head back against the arm rest, fingers lightly tracing the wing carved into his chest. He was still wearing the trench coat.

Dean crept around the couch and shuffled down so that he was on top of the fallen angel, straddling Cas' waist. Thin slits of blue looked up at him and Dean smiled, pressing his fingertips down Cas's chest, following the trails Castiel's fingers had made across the car there. Then he grabbed a fistful of the former angels' coat and yanked him up so that their lips smashed unceremoniously together.

This continued for a while.

The trench coat remained on.

Dean didn't mind. Sure, the future was shitty, their lives had fallen apart completely, and they were probably all going to burn in hellfire by the end of it but, really, at least it was something. A bittersweet, half-shattered, no-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel kind of something but it was a something all the same.

In another future, Dean had never confessed his feelings to Castiel. In another future, Dean had never even met the angel. In another future, Dean had said 'yes' and Castiel had been left to watch as things had been torn apart and he had had no one to turn to. In another future, Dean had rejected Cas and the angel had broken apart without a grounding force, become a half-mad creature that no longer recognized Dean Winchester at all.

If this Dean had known these things, he might have been a lot happier with the future he had.

As it was, he didn't know of these other possible futures.

And really, it was probably all for the better.

All he needed at the moment was a pair of clipped wings and a dirt old trench coat.


	18. Even Angels Get Hurt

_Feel free to ignore my clashing obsessions. Portal belongs to Valve._

* * *

><p><strong>Even Angels Get Hurt<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean barreled around a corner, swearing up a storm, only to have his progress halted by a hand grabbing the back of his jumpsuit jacket and yanking him backwards. He tripped over the braces that forced him to stand on his toes and fell into Sam. Both brothers ended up sprawled on the floor with a new collection of bruises.<p>

"Sammy, what the hell!" Dean barked, untangling himself from his brother.

"Thermal Discouragement Beam." Sam gasped, trying to get his breath back as he pointed a hand. Dean looked around and saw that if he had kept turning the corner, he would have had some wonderfully nasty burns on his legs from the glowing red light darting across the hall.

"It's a fucking laser." He grunted because he didn't have anything else to say.

Sam huffed in response, putting on one of his best bitchfaces. There had been a lot of those lately.

Dean didn't know how long he had Sam had been stuck in this place or how they had even gotten here. It could have been any number of things; a ploy by Zachariah to get them to do what he wanted, a trick from Gabriel to knock them off their high horses, or even a witch of some kind or other supernatural creature the brothers had no knowledge about. All he knew was that they were looking into some strange disappearances in Michigan and things had suddenly gone upside down. It had been in a field where all the disappearances had taken place. There had been nothing for miles except for wheat and sky and then, quite suddenly, a gut-wrenching sensation as though they had taken a step forward and their insides had tried to stay behind.

Then there had been a shed and curiosity and suspicion and guns at the ready. The door had been half-cracked open and they had pried it even further, creeping inside to find a strangely high tech elevator shaft. And an elevator. Which promptly took them down, down, down, down, down, and so far down that Dean thought they might reach Hell at the rate they were going.

They might as well have.

It was blurry after that, only a sickly sweet smell that both brothers had realized was trouble but being stuck in a small, cylindrical elevator only left only so much space to run. They'd blacked out. Coming too had not been a party. Gone were their jeans and T-shirts, replaced instead with jumpsuits that Dean immediately announced as gay but that might have been because his was bright orange and Sam's was blue. And their sawed-offs and pistols had been replaced with…

Sam scooped up the white and black device and shoved it back into Dean's hands, shouldering his own as he did so, "Keep a hold of that. It's our only way out of here, jerk."

"Bitch." Dean threw back but a little less hotly than he intended.

"_If you are done stalling, there is still a lot of testing to do."_ Said Her voice from everywhere at once. Neither brother knew what or who She was but there was something chillingly robotic and frighteningly powerful about the way She spoke that said absolute control belonged to Her, _"Of course, there's no rush. Take your time. We have a lot of it. Well, I do anyway."_

"Son of a bitch." Dean growled, bare feet cool against the tiles of the floor. He really hated the way these stupid leg braces forced him to stand on his toes like a girl but, as Sam pointed out, they did prevent them from breaking their legs after long falls. To which Dean had replied that they suited Sam just fine since he was a girl anyway.

"Come on," Sam nudged his brother in the back, "If we keep moving, maybe we can find a way out of here."

"You've been saying that for the last…" Dean paused, "How long have we been in here?"

Sam blinked, a frown crossing his features as he stepped carefully over the Thermal Discouragement Beam and looked around for what to do next, "I'm…not really sure." He glanced at his brother, "I can't tell."

"Damn it." Dean muttered and turned his face towards the ceiling, "Cas, if you can hear us, getting your feathery ass down here would be a great help."

* * *

><p>Sam tossed the Cube off the platform to Dean, who caught it with a grunt, dragged it over to the button, and dropped it. The line of dots across the floor went from blue to yellow and the door across the room spun open. Sam jumped down from the platform and the two brothers trotted across the room.<p>

"_Excellent job, Blue."_ She said as they stepped through the tingling fizzler, _"Orange, that was…adequate."_

Dean bristled at the comment but did not respond. Sam shot his brother a worried look but said nothing as they both stepped into the elevator. The door hissed closed around them and began to descend, farther and farther down and farther and farther from the surface.

"Cas," Dean murmured, looking up again, a pleading glint in his green eyes, "Where are you? Come on, we need you. I need you."

Sam pretended not to hear.

* * *

><p>Room after room after room after room after room.<p>

Lasers, cubes, buttons, spring loaded plates, portals, turrets.

Jump, dodge, roll, run, run, run.

And at the end of every chamber, Dean would send a prayer out to Castiel in hopes that he would appear.

The Winchesters were becoming exhausted and stressed. They began to snap at one another, arguing in the middle of test chambers which earned them passive aggressive insults and unhidden suggestions of deadly neurotoxin from Her.

Hungry, tired, and running short on nerves, what they saw at the end of the latest chamber, slumped against one of the walls, brightened their moods considerably.

"Cas!" Dean let out a joyous cry, dropped the cube he'd been carrying, and ran across the room to throw his arms around the angel, his Portal Gun thudding against Cas' back, "We've been calling you for ages! What gives!"

"You had entered another dimension." The angel answered, sounding tired and little bit relieved, "It was extremely difficult to pin point your location."

"Wait, we're in another dimension?" Sam asked, letting his own Portal Gun swing down to his side as he approached.

"Yes." Castiel answered, one hand still on Dean's shoulder as he turned to Sam, "Space and time become thin in some spots and people can accidently cross. It has happened before."

"Like the Bermuda Triangle?" Dean questioned.

"_I see you have managed to smuggle in a friend."_ Her voice interrupted, _"I'm afraid this won't make much of a difference, given your current record."_ A pause, _"And in case you didn't get that, I meant that you have been failing miserably."_ Cas' head snapped up to look at the ceiling and Dean ground his teeth together. Sam warily lifted up his Portal gun and looked around, _"On the other hand, this is the Cooperative Testing Initiative. It was designed for two, not three."_ Dean tensed and lifted his own Portal Gun, _"And your friend is not wearing the regulation jumpsuit which, by the way, does make you look fat. I guess one of you will just have to _leave_."_

There was a click and the noise of panels moving. Then a red dot appeared on Castiel's chest.

"_Target aquired."_

"Cas!" Sam shouted but Dean was already moving.

The oldest Winchester slammed into Castiel, pushing him aside as the turret fired. There was a sudden cascade of light and color, a sound like shattering glass, and then the warbling scream of a dying turret. Dean cracked his eyes open and the first thing he saw was Sam beating a turret with his Portal Gun. Then he saw Castiel curled on the floor, shaking, eyes closed and arms wrapped around himself.

"Cas! Cas, talk to me!" Dean crouched beside the angel, "Castiel, what—!"

"My wings…"

And then Dean finally noticed it. The colorful wings had become muted and smoky and it looked as though cracks were spider webbed across the feathers. Dean reached out a tentative hand and brushed his fingers across them. Cas let out a pained cry and curled tighter around himself.

"Dean," Sam called, "We gotta move!"

"Cas is hurt!" Dean grabbed the angel's arm and hauled it over his shoulders. Cas whimpered as his damaged wings were moved but Dean hooked an arm around his waist, keeping a firm grip on the Portal Gun, and started dragging him towards the door.

"No, this way!" Sam gestured and they ducked into the open panel where the turret had been.

"_Where do you think you're going?"_ Her voice was everywhere and Dean felt an angry chill because She was probably still watching them and She had hurt Cas and God help Her if he found out where She was, _"You're not even going the right way."_

The Winchesters ignored her, running as best they could down the metal catwalks, past boxed up rooms, past swinging panels, past twisted tubes carrying turrets and cubes. Castiel moaned and whimpered every time his wings were jostled and Dean felt terrible for him but they had to keep moving.

"_You're just going in circles."_ She taunted them, _"You know what's even worse? That was your final test. You could have been done. If you turn around and go back right now, I might let you finish it."_

"God, does She ever shut up!" Sam snapped between gasps of breath.

"Sam, where the hell are we even going!" Dean tightened his grip on Cas' arm. The Portal Gun was starting to slip in his sweaty hand and he was running low on energy. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this up. Or how much more Castiel could take.

"I don't—this way!" Sam suddenly turned sharply and Dean hurried after him. As he turned the corner, his green eyes flashed over a wall. Someone had scribbled a series of black arrows pointing in the direction they were now going. Dean generally didn't trust things on first pass but these were undeniably human markings and that, for whatever small manner of comfort and trust it provided, was worth something.

They kept following the arrows. She kept taunting them. Castiel's moans became weaker.

Eventually, they ran out of catwalk.

"Shit." Sam cursed, looking at the drop below them.

"_I told you."_ She said mildly from everywhere, _"If you keep going, you're just going to get hurt. Turn back and I'll let you finish testing. In peace. Without anymore distractions."_

"Jump, Sammy." Dean growled and when his brother looked at him in wondering shock, "I'm not going back there and Cas is fallin' apart. Just jump!"

Sam obeyed. He took a step back and then dropped off the broken edge of the catwalk. There was a thud from below and then he shouted, "Drop Cas down, I'll catch him! Hurry up, Dean!"

"_You're going the wrong way."_

Dean sidled up to the edge and peered over. He could just make out Sam's blue jumpsuit and the white flash of the Portal Gun from the shadows below.

"_Seriously, you're just going to get hurt down there."_

Dean unhooked Cas' arm from his shoulders. The angel was terribly still. Dean hefted him up in his arms and leaned carefully over the edge. Those usually warm light-feathers were stiff and cold, "Watch his wings!"

"_You don't know what you're doing."_

Dean gently let Cas slip from his fingers, watching fearfully as Sam stretched his arms out. There was a soft _whump_ and Castiel let out a pained cry that was nearly a scream. It wrenched at Dean's heart. He took a step back, preparing to jump.

"_I knew a couple of other idiots like you. A moron and a monster. They nearly destroyed the facility. Do you know what I did to them?"_

Dean took a running leap off the edge into the gloom below.

"_I got rid of them."_

* * *

><p>Dean let Sam carry Cas down the broken and crooked halls, mostly because he knew he didn't have the strength to do it anymore. Her voice didn't seem to reach down here and all that surrounded them were shadows and the hum of machinery they couldn't see.<p>

They finally reached a small room with grungy tiles that was lit by a pulsing, orangish glow seeping in through the cracked panels overhead. The floor was littered in debris, tin cans, a dead radio, several boxes, and a rotten blanket that fell apart in Dean's hands when he picked it up. He cleared a space on the floor and Sam stretched Cas out, carefully avoiding the wings as Dean directed him. The pulsing orange glow lit the tormented scribbles painted across the walls, reaching hands, a mass of faceless people, boxes of pink and black, a girl in an orange jumpsuit and a round silver and blue thing beside her dodging amongst turrets, and a sea of meaningless words.

**EXILE**

**doN'T even trY**

**taKes your MIND**

**unSEEn**

**SHE'S alwAys WATcHinG**

"Castiel." Dean pressed a hand lightly to the angel's cheek, "Cas, look at me. Open your eyes, dude. Look at me and tell me you're going to be okay." A sliver of dull blue cracked open and peered blearily at Dean. Sam hung back in the shadows, hovering in a corner, anxious to help but unsure what to do.

"Dean," Cas breathed, "You are alive. That is good. My wings protected you."

"Yeah, yeah, they did. Now tell me how to fix them."

"Grace…" Castiel said tiredly, "My Grace is drained…"

"I know, I know, it was too much work for you to get through dimensions to find us. Now tell me how to fix your wings."

"Dean…"

"Cas, I'm right here. Don't you close your eyes! Don't close your eyes! Don't you dare try and leave us here, Cas, I'd never forgive you! You hear me! If you left me, I would never, ever forgive you!"

Blue snapped wide open, hurt and shocked, staring at Dean. The oldest Winchester's fingers were clenched tightly around the front of Castiel's stupid old trench coat and he wasn't going to let go. He was aware of Sam's gaze on him but he didn't care. Now was not the time.

"You would never forgive me?"

"Not ever." Dean grunted.

"Then I…will make an effort not to go anywhere."

"Good. Now tell me how to fix you."

"Share your Grace with me."

"Cas, you're delirious. I'm human, I don't have any Grace."

Castiel made a pained noise and tilted his head back so that his neck was exposed. His wings trembled like a chalky smoke against the ground, "You have my Grace inside you, Dean."

Dean pressed a hand automatically to his shoulder and felt the mark swollen against his skin. Then, without hesitation, he stripped off the jacket of his jumpsuit so that it hung around his waist and leaned in close to Castiel. Sam made a small noise and shuffled around on the spot presumably so that he couldn't see his brother and the angel. Dean gently took Castiel's hand and pressed it against the brand on his shoulder, the angel's fingers unusually cold. Then, slowly, gently, he pressed his lips to Castiel's

Light exploded around them, coating the orangeish room in every color in and out of existence. When it faded, everything seemed dull and black and white but Castiel was smothered in Dean's arms, pressing his lips against the mark on Dean's shoulder, smothering it in kisses as Dean replicated the movement on Cas' neck.

Sam let this go on for a minute before he cleared his throat, "Guys, not to interrupt or anything, but we're kind on stuck in another dimension with an omnipotent voice that I'm pretty sure is trying to kill us. Just FYI."

"Yes, of course, Sam." Castiel nodded and pulled away from Dean who made a regretful noise and glared at his brother, "I think my Grace has been sufficiently restored to return you to your true dimension."

"What about this place?" Dean asked, hand lingering close to Castiel's, "It's kind of really fucking dangerous. Kind of a death trap. Don't you think we should, you know, take it out?"

Castiel looked around the room, impossibly blue eyes lingering on the markings on the walls, and then said, "It has been dealt with. This dimension already has someone. It does not need you."

"Someone what?" Sam asked but Cas had already touched his fingertips to their foreheads and whisked them away.

Left behind in the empty room, a stack of boxes, no doubt disturbed by the sudden displacement of air, toppled sideways to scatter across the floor. On the other side was a shattered panel through which blinked a wavering red beam.

"_There once was a man who would be king."_ Said a small, lilting voice, _"He gained much and lost all. The souls are not the answer."_

There was silence for a long moment and then,

"_They will rise from the deep. And everything will be covered in black."_


	19. Ten Fathoms Deep on the Road to Hell

_Experimenting here. Bear with me._

* * *

><p><strong>Ten Fathoms Deep on the Road to Hell<strong>

* * *

><p>"It's dark," Says the demon.<p>

"Yes," Replies the angel, "It is always dark in Hell."

"No it isn't." The demon counters. Chains rattle in the blackness, "Before you stole me there was fire."

"Those were souls," The angel says and he sounds sad, "They were burning with pain."

"I caused that pain?"

"Yes."

A grin, all crooked teeth and jagged points, "Good."

There is a sensation like rain during a funeral but no words were said.

* * *

><p>"Hey angel, will you take these chains off?"<p>

The angel looks at the demon and sees _hellfire _and_ black smoke trapped by acid slick chains _and_ steel barbed wire ripping tearing burning aching hating _and says,

"Not yet."

* * *

><p>Most of the time there is quiet.<p>

Sometimes there are the echoes of distant screams, sometimes the demon talks, sometimes the angel answers.

But mostly there is quiet.

Even their footsteps are silent.

* * *

><p>"Hey angel, where are we going?"<p>

"Up."

"When will we get there?"

"When you are ready."

"What will happen when we do?"

There is no answer.

* * *

><p>Someone is crying.<p>

When the angel looks he sees _sparks sputtering in the dark trying to ignite into an inferno without fuel_ and _rusted cables of steel with dull barbs scraping against still bleeding wounds _and asks,

"What is the matter?"

"I took the knife!" The demon cries, trying to hide from the angel's gaze, "I took the knife from him! I took the knife to the souls on the rack! I took the knife, I took the knife!"

"Shhhhh." The angel croons and something like wings stroke the demon's trembling form, "Shhhh, you are forgiven, ssshhhhhhh."

The demon cries for a long time.

* * *

><p>"Hey angel, will it hurt to go back up?"<p>

"Probably. Yes."

"Will you be there?"

"I will try to be."

"Will I remember…what I did here?"

"I think so."

"Will I remember you."

A slight hesitation, "No. But I will mark you so that I can find you again."

The silence rolls back in like a steady fog.

* * *

><p>It is less black now.<p>

It's as though the darkness is draining away and everything left behind is the tone of ashes and chimney smoke.

There are no more screams.

* * *

><p>"Hey angel, the chains are gone."<p>

There is the sensation of sunbeams through fresh green leaves.

"Then you are ready."

* * *

><p>Everything is white now.<p>

When the angel looks at the demon he sees _warm tendrils of light curling like caressing fingers around a scarred and broken mass_ and _chunks missing that can never be replaced from a wall of concrete conviction_ and_ passion so brilliant is a star against white_ and

can't call him a demon anymore.

"Hey angel," Says the human soul, "Why can't I see you?"

"You were tainted by Hell," The angel replies, "I did not want to hurt you."

"Say…angel?"

"Yes?"

"May I see your wings?"

There is the curious pause of a creature observing something it does not understand and suddenly the white is filled with color. It is everywhere and contained, it is stationary and mobile, and it is indefinable and glorious beyond words.

The human soul laughs.

There is something like a smile in the lights and color.

Something like a hand grips the human soul and the colors swirl and something like wings beat.

Then there is a pull, a sharp burst of power and light and glory and grace.

Then the white is empty and silence crowds into its nonexistent corners.

* * *

><p>The angel watched as the human dragged himself out of the ground, making that one last step towards life by himself.<p>

The angel watched as the human made his way down an empty road in searing heat and tried to speak to tell him which way to go.

The angel watched and watched and waited to be called.

And when he was called, he flew to Dean Winchester's side.

And had no intention of leaving it ever again.


	20. Angel Soft

_I saw a commercial the other night and…I just had to. It was asking for it. Forgive this shoddy crack._

* * *

><p><strong>Angel Soft<strong>

* * *

><p>Sam finds Dean giggling in the toiletries aisle at the general store they stopped in to restock and is instantly suspicious. The two prank each other but have an unspoken rule about pranking the general public; they don't. The general public has enough to worry about without the Winchesters adding on to it all. So of course Sam's a bit wary that maybe Dean's finally slipped off the cliff edge he teeters around every so often and fallen off the deep end.<p>

"What did you do?" He askes, striding down the aisle with the basket in one hand.

Dean just snickers and waves him over, pointing silently at the toilet paper pack on the shelf in front of him. Sam raises an eyebrow at him but turns to look,

"Angel Soft? What about it?"

"Ya' think that's what Cas uses to—?"

"Oh, God, Dean, that's so immature! Seriously!"

"Whatever, dude. It's friggin' hilarious." Dean sweeps the packet off the shelf and dumps it into the basket, "And we're buying it."

Sam protests all the way to the check out. But he doesn't take the toilet paper out of the bag.

Cas is practically family now.

He can stand to suffer through a few, minor practical jokes.

* * *

><p>After fifteen hours and countless miles on the road, Dean is beat. He's ready to keel over and sleep wherever his feet leave him. Except Sam doesn't want to sleep in the car for a fourth night in a row so Dean's forced to drive another two hours until they reach what could pass for civilization.<p>

The motel's cheap, seedy, and covered in atrocious wallpaper, just like always (it's starting to feel like home, really, and Sam's sure Dean goes out of his way to find the stupidest motels around because mushroom themed, really?) and the two drag their bags in with tired grunting a few bickering remarks. But Dean's up to his eyeballs in exhaustion and won't take any of Sam's bitchfacing tonight. He just flops across the nearest bed, takes ten seconds to kick his boots off, and then he's out faster than a good old salt and burn.

Sam's a little slower getting to sleep, but only by a few minutes and that's because he takes the time to properly remove his clothes in preparation for bed and actually crawls under the covers. So maybe it's because he wasn't as deeply asleep as Dean that a small commotion in the bathroom wakes him in the middle of the night.

Dean's still out, flat on his stomach, face turned away from Sam, back rising and falling with deep, peaceful breaths. Sam spares him a glance before carefully sliding out of bed, gripping the demon-killing knife in his hand. He eases across the paper-thin carpet as silently as the well trained hunter that he is, pauses outside the bathroom door to listen for a moment, and then flings it open, bringing the knife up to swing it down on the unsuspecting form of…

Castiel.

The angel is sitting on the grimy tile of the bathroom floor, wedged between the sink and the opposite wall, and he's staring up at Sam with what could pass for mild surprise in his blue eyes.

It takes Sam a second to register that Castiel has a lap full of toilet paper.

No, not just a lap full, he's wrapped it over his shoulders like a scarf and has let it trail down his front to pile in his lap where he appears to be folding it all into some sort of intricate pattern.

"Um…Cas?" Sam lowers the knife and simply stands there, mystified.

"Sam." Castiel replies and it has such a casual tone that it seems entirely out of place like he's _not_ sitting on the bathroom floor playing with a roll of toilet paper.

"What exactly are you doing with that toilet paper?"

Castiel looks down, tilts his head to the side, and then looks back up at Sam and says, "Trying to understand why humans call it 'Angel Soft'. Are we pleasantly malleable, Sam? I never thought so but my perception of human touch is somewhat—."

"You're not squishy, Cas, trust me." Sam cuts him off. Then he sighs, "Geez, but you've kind of made a mess and putting toilet paper back up the roll is a pain in the ass." He taps a bear foot on the floor for a moment, thinking, and then a mischievous smirk lifts the corners of his mouth,

"Say Cas, I've got a great idea for a surprise you could give Dean with all that Angel Soft…"

* * *

><p>The following day goes something like this:<p>

"Did you TP my baby!"

"Dude, somebody did the outside _and_ the inside! When the doors were locked! And you had the keys in the pockets of the jeans you never bothered to take off last night!"

There's a thoughtful, somewhat angry pause.

"CASTIEL!"

A very short, heated discussion ensues.

Dean ends up with a bloody nose and a bruise in the shape of his brother's boot in his side.

Sam ends up with a black eye and a boxed ear.

He also kind of regrets teaching Castiel how to start a prank war.

But only a little bit.


	21. The Days of Steam and Featherless Wings

_Steampunk verse. Because everything's cool when you Steampunk it. 'Cept I found it's a little easier to draw Steampunk than to write it…and this would have been fifty times longer, I think…_

_Song: "To the Apocalypse in Daddy's Sidecar" by Abney Park_

* * *

><p><strong>The Days of Steam and Featherless Wings<strong>

* * *

><p>Most of his brothers disapproved but pleasing his garrison and his superiors interested Castiel very little anymore.<p>

The wings of angels were invisible to humans, so glorious and powerful that they were beyong mankind's perception. But hunting with the Winchesters, acting as their guardian angel, Castiel had learned the hard way that unless the brothers could see them his wings often did more harm than good.

So with the help of his closest brothers, Balthazar and Gabriel, he had created a manifestation of his wings. Using his Grace, the Grace of his brothers, and the mechanized knowledge and steam power of the humans, he had created a pair of wings just a beautiful and just as deadly as his old ones.

And they were extremely useful.

The target of their current hunt was a nest of vampires they had tracked to an abandoned warehouse a few miles outside of town. They were uncertain of the number of blood suckers but Dean had been tired of waiting. And of course Castiel almost always sided with Dean so it was two against one and Sam had had no choice but to concede. There was no point in arguing with an angry Dean and his stubborn angel.

So there they were, carefully approaching the old warehouse, sneaking in through the rusted back door into the dark interior. Dean gently pulled back the catch on his sawed-off and sent the gears humming into motion, a hiss of steam pouring out of the pipe running along the barrel. Sam cocked his own gun and lifted a knife from his side. Castiel, armed with his own angelic powers, simply followed quietly.

"Where are they?" Dean whispered as they moved deeper into the warehouse.

"Maybe they packed up and—Dean, look out!" Sam's shout came a second too late and the vampire bearing down on them slammed Dean to the floor. The oldest Winchester lost his grip on his steam-gun and it spun off into the shadows. Dean cursed; that happened to be his favorite gun, he'd built it himself.

Castiel launched himself at the vampire but another lurched from the shadows and snagged the back of the angel's trench coat, hauling him backwards with terrible strength and hurtling him into the nearest wall. Sam leveled his gun and fired. Silver pierced through the air and slammed into the vampire's shoulder. It hissed at him and darted away. Sam then turned to aid his brother, swinging up the knife, but another vampire grabbed him from behind and yanked his arms back until he cried out in pain and dropped both weapons. He felt ice cold breath score across his neck and iron sharp teeth brush his skin when something else plowed into both of them and sent them slamming into the floor.

The vampire let out a scream and there was furious burst of light. Castiel dropped the smoking corpse of the dead vampire and spun away to deal with the other vampires rising from the shadows. Sam scooped up his gun, aimed, and fired. The vampire that had been pinning Dean to the floor screeched and jerked back, giving Dean enough time yank out his own knife and jam it up under the thing's chin. It wasn't a killing blow but it was enough to ruin the vampire's day.

The oldest Winchester brother rolled to his feet, locating his sawed-off, which was still hissing steam, and swore loudly.

They were surrounded by vampires.

There had to be at least ten, fifteen at the most. And they all looked extremely pissed.

"I hate to say it out loud but I don't think we have enough silver bullets for these guys." Sam muttered, stepping backwards so that his shoulders brushed with Dean's.

"Yeah, think we bit off more than we could chew."

"Not funny, Dean."

"You just have no sense of humor."

"Now is not the time for joking, Dean." Castiel said flatly, a seriousness on his face that said he meant business. Well, that was something, "Sam is right; you do not have enough silver bullets to take care of this nest." The angel straightened up, his shoulders tense, "You may want to stand back."

Dean shared a glance with Sam, knew what was coming, and opted for dropping to the floor instead of moving away. Mostly because moving away would mean moving towards the vampires. And besides, with what Cas was about to pull, the floor was probably the safest place to be.

The fingers of Castiel's right hand twitched and a sword dropped down from his coat sleeve, hilt catching easily on his palm. He hefted it once as if it was nothing but paper and the gold-silver glimmer caught what little light there was. Dean watched him from the floor, waiting for it. The vampire's hesitated at the sight of the sword and then growled and hissed anew and prepared to attack.

Cas tilted his head to the side and then unfurled his wings.

Tucked away into "angel space", as Dean referred to it, wings had not affect on the physical plane. Manifested, they were a glorious sight to behold and Dean loved to watch them come into being.

They uncurled from Castiel's back, right between his shoulder blades, with a series of sharp _snk snk snk_s, gears unwinding, the clicks of mechanical parts sliding into place, the ring of thin plates of metal sliding against one another sending a shiver through the air. Burnished metal the color of copper unfolded into long feathers, the tips folded with bright blades of silver, further up the metallic feathers went from copper to bronze and finally became thin curls of gold. Thin bars of silver connected the feathers and wings together, meeting together at his back in a complicated pattern of gears and delicate cogs, smaller gears winding their way through the entirety of the wings. If one were to look close enough, it was possible to see shreds of golden-white-blue Grace weaving between the feathers, turning the gears, keeping everything together.

The sight of the wings seemed to simply infuriate the vampires. They screeched wordlessly and threw themselves at Cas. And then the angel moved. He spread his wings and spun, using the silver on the tips of his wings and his sword as weapons. They sliced with hissing whistles through the air, an amazing dance that was beautiful and deadly.

But as Castiel was spinning to finish off the last of them, heads rolling and blood splattered across metal and cement, one dropped down from the ceiling. It landed right between those mechanical wings, grabbed a fistful Castiel's hair, and yanked the angel's head back.

Dean snarled and before he knew what he was doing he was on his feet and running towards Cas. He heard Sam shouting at him to stop but he ignored it. He ducked under the flaring wings as Castiel struggled to dislodge the vampire, and lunged at the vampire. He managed to snagged the sleeve of the vampire's shirt and tugged sharply, pulling all of them down to the floor with a resounding crash. Castiel's flailing wings raised sparks against the cement and Dean, trapped beneath a writhing vampire and a struggling angel, suddenly feared for his safety.

Then Castiel somehow managed to flip around and raise his sword. Dean caught the full force of an angel's furious, blue-eyed fire glare and knew why it was that angels were feared more than any other creature and why he owed Castiel his respect. That sword looked a whole lot bigger when you were pinned beneath a screaming vampire. That sword swung down and pierced the vampire on top of Dean right through the skull.

Everything froze for a second and then the Castiel rose slowly, pulled the vampire up, and sliced off its head. The body collapsed and Cas shook his sword as if dislodging water from it. It vanished and he held his now empty hand out to Dean. The oldest Winchester grasped it gratefully and hauled himself to his feet. It was then, when he was dusting himself off and pointedly ignoring Sam's condescending lecture, that he noticed that one of Castiel's wings was crooked and the usual smooth sound of the gears was crunched and clicking with effort.

"Dude, Cas, turn around." Dean ordered. The angel hesitated, looking wary and—Dean swore—too proud to do so. Then he slowly turned, one wing folded tight against his back, the other half open.

Dean stepped forward to inspect the wings and, sure enough, found that a handful of the gears on the angel's back had been broken. Grace was tangled in the teeth of the gears, a shaft of silver that supported the arc of the wing had splintered, causing the wing to droop, and several of the remaining cogs were cracked or knocked out of alignment, making it impossible for them to turn properly. Sam made a hissing noise between his teeth when he saw the damage and Dean waved a hand at him, telling him to shut up.

"We gotta get this fixed up," Dean muttered, leaning closer to get a better look at the damage, "But you are so not getting in my baby with those wings out. Can you zap back to the house and we'll meet you there?"

"I can call my brothers—." Cas began.

"No fucking way am I having Balthazar _and_ Gabriel in the same room as me—."

"You do not have to be there—."

"Guys, later, okay." Sam cut in, throwing a hand out, "Cas, just go back to the house, we don't need to bother your brothers. Dean's good with his hands, he can fix your wings easy."

"Had to phrase it like that…" Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. But he turned to Castiel and met the angel's solid blue gaze, "Just promise to meet us back at the mote, okay?"

Castiel stared at him for a long moment and then, without a word, vanished.

Dean glared at the spot where the angel had been, "I hate it when he does that."

Sam just laughed.

* * *

><p>"Does this hurt you? Like, can you feel it?"<p>

Castiel twisted slightly on the carpeted floor so that he could turn his head and look at Dean and simply said, "Yes."

"Yes to what?"

"To both."

Dean grunted, somewhat frustrated by the angel's lack of response, and bent over his tools again.

The two were in a spare bedroom on the second floor of Bobby Singer's house, a room generally used for storage with the bed removed and piles of boxes pressed against the walls. But it was the only room where Cas could let his wings stretch out enough for Dean to work on them so it would have to do. The place smelled a little dusty, a little oily, but it was better than nothing.

Dean had dragged his box of tools from the back seat of his precious, steam-modified Impala into the house and had taken the liberty of procuring some of Bobby's tools as well. He sat on the floor with the box of tools on one side a pile of other essentials on the other, wearing only a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. There were a pair of magnifying goggles dangling around his neck but he wouldn't need them until it came to the finely detailed stuff. For now, it was just his regular human eyes.

He chewed on his lip a moment, green eyes switching between the broken gears on the wing to the pile of cogs and bits and pieces beside him. Then he carefully selected on from the pile, polished it with chemicals and oil and set it aside on a clean towel. He did this with several other gears and cogs, nuts, bolts, odds and ends, until he had a large collection spread out across the towel, all polished and carefully cleaned. The air clung thick with the smell of the chemicals and Dean stood up, walked across the room, and cracked the old window open, letting a breeze waft through and clear the air out through the open door. When he turned back around, he found that Castiel had closed his eyes.

"Hey, you better not go to sleep. I need you to help me do this."

Blue flashed towards him, "I do not need to sleep, Dean."

"Whatever." Dean stepped back over to his spot and dropped down to the floor. He picked up his tools and bent of the wing, freezing just short of touching the gears, "I need your help with this, Cas. The majority of this is held together and kept moving by your Grace. If you don't do exactly as I say it's gonna royally fuck up your wings."

"I understand. I will do as you say."

"And I don't have parts that match these ones exactly so I have to improvise. Which means you won't have pretty, perfect, symmetrical wings anymore."

"That is all right. I know they will work if you rebuild them. I have all the confidence in you."

For some reason, that meant a lot coming from Castiel. Dean brushed it off, though, and set to work.

It was hard, long, and difficult. They couldn't stop for very long because with pieces out of place, Castiel's Grace didn't know which direction to flow in through the gears and ended up tangled, spitting sparks and steam into the air like the Impala after getting ruptured in her steam pipes. Even then, there were times when the Grace built up and tangled anyway and Dean had to stop working and wait for Castiel to sort it out before he could continue again. But he was patient, never rushed the angel, and treated the wings with as much delicate care as he did his car.

For a while, the only sounds were the clink and clatter of tools, the little tinkle of metal against metal, and, occasionally, Dean's voice murmuring orders to Castiel to which the angel silently responded. But after a couple of hours, Dean realized that Cas was singing. It was a soft song and he almost didn't catch it. But, under the pretext of cleaning grease and oil off one of his tools, he paused long enough to catch some of the words.

It surprised him to recognize a very human song, not Enochian at all like he'd expected,

_"Got shotgun shells, twelve cans of beans, and an old stuffed toy comin' apart at the seams, a little lace dress you've worn for too far as you watch the apocalypse in Daddy's side car…"_

Dean couldn't help the smile that crept over his face as he knelt back to his work.

Perhaps Castiel wasn't as unaffected by the steam and steel of the modern age as he liked to pretend he was.

And that, as far as Dean was concerned, was a five star victory.

Maybe later he'd take the angel out and try to get him drunk.


	22. Tangled Together

_I got this idea from a dream I had. I have strange dreams. _

_And I haven't watched Episode 17 yet, I'm watching it tonight (03/26/2012) so NO ONE SAY A WORD. Not that I'm expecting much from it. I haven't expected much from the series since season 7 began. Whatever happened to decent writing...?  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Tangled Together<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean Winchester died.<p>

It was afterwards that things got complicated.

His younger brother Sam couldn't let it happen, couldn't let him be. And Sam, genius yet stupid Sam, had performed an ancient ritual that kept Dean's soul in his body, bound to earth, kept him alive. But it required something from Dean as well. To keep his soul strong and bound to Earth, Dean's soul was entertained the gears of a pocketwatch, weaving between himself and the tiny mechanical object. And if he wanted to live, he had to wind it every twenty-four hours to keep the hands turning and the gears running, powering his soul.

He never let it out of his sight and wore it on a tight chain around his neck, tucked under his shirt, ticking against his heart.

They still hunted, they couldn't afford not to and even after the Apocalypse began with Sam to blame, Dean still kept the watch close around his neck. He'd had it engraved, at some point, bored of the flat silver surface. On the flip-open top were his and Sam's initials and on the bottom was a demon warding sigil with an incantation for protection carved around it. Sam had teased Dean for the longest time about what the engraver had said when Dean had showed him what he wanted.

And then Castiel had entered the picture.

Sam had seen it long before Dean—clueless Dean—had and had let out an exasperated "Finally!" when the two had eventually hooked up.

That had taken almost a year.

By that time, the Apocalypse had been stopped, Lucifer had never left his cage, and Castiel had stayed with the Winchesters as their 'guardian angel' of sorts. At least, that's what was officially said out loud, that was what was on all the paperwork. But everyone knew it was simply because Cas wanted to stay with Dean. And really, nobody minded.

* * *

><p>It was a standard issue hunt. Ghost taking people' eyeballs, dark history of some kind, a haunting we will go. Except it turned out a demon was behind the raising of the ghost and things got a little more complicated after that.<p>

Having Castiel helped but dealing with an eye-stealing ghost that was currently pinning Sam to the wall, struggling to pluck out his peepers, and a furious demon who was trying to bite Cas' face off made things difficult for everyone. Dean fired a round of a rock salt filled bullet into the ghost, sending it screaming off his brother, and rounded on the demon only to find that it had managed to throw Castiel to the floor and was launching across the room at Dean. The eldest Winchester knew he didn't have time to dodge, all he could do was lessen the blow. So he spun on his heel, turning himself to the side to create a smaller target. The demon slammed into him and they both fell to the floor, tussling with one another.

Sam suddenly loomed over them and grabbed the demon possessed man by the scruff of his neck and hauled him backward, fury written across every line of his face. But the demon had one last game to play. His hands scrambled across Dean's neck, searching for a purchase, found the silver chain, and grabbed it.

Dean let out a strangled cry as the metal jerked against his skin and then snapped when Sam yanked the demon off and threw him to the floor. Dean lept to his feet at the same time as the demon, sweeping up his shotgun as he did so. The demon growled to find himself surrounded on all sides by two hunters, an angel, and a very solid wall.

"Give me back the watch." Dean demanded, cocking his shotgun, fury burning hotly through him.

"This piece of junk?" The demon raised his hand and shook the chain, jostling the well cared for and brightly polished disc of silver, "What, it's sentimental?"

"Put it down." Castiel said.

"Let me go." The demon responded sharply.

"No can do." Sam leveled his own gun.

"Too bad then." There was a shriek and the ghost latched onto Sam's back, fingers digging into the youngest Winchester's stupid long hair. Sam jerked backwards and attempted to knock the ghost off by ramming into the back of the couch.

Castiel ran at the demon, hand outstretched to banish it from the man it was possessing. The demon, realizing it wasn't going to dodge this one, hurled the pocket watch into the air and then turned on Cas, hissing and preparing to fight back.

Dean leapt for the watch, tripped over the rug and slammed to the floor with a gasp. The watch sailed through the air and vanished behind the chair in the corner. Dean didn't hear it hit the floor but he felt the jolt deep inside him and knew, just knew, that something was not right.

A flash of light to his left told him that Castiel had managed to deal with the demon and, with it gone, the ghost screeched out of existence with a flare of fire and ash. Dean was already scrambling across the room and shoving the chair aside, tipping it over with a loud thump.

"Dean." Cas was suddenly as his side, his shadow arching over the wall.

Dean's mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his breath caught in his throat, hands trembling as he scooped up the silver watch. The pieces of the silver chain dangled through his fingers, the cover had popped open and the glass over the face had cracked with the impact but the thin, black, delicate hands were still ticking over the roman numerals around the edges. It looked as though the watch was fine.

Sam's electric wristwatch beeped the time and he glanced down at it, "Dean, it's midnight!"

"Right." Dean's shaking fingers scrambled over the knob on the top of the pocket watch, grasped it, and gave it a twist.

It wouldn't budge.

"Shit." He gasped between clenched teeth, "No, shit, no! Sammy, it won't move! I can't wind it! No, no—aahhggk!" Dean doubled over, one hand fisting over his chest, clenched into his t-shirt, the other still clasped onto the watch.

He felt like someone was driving a hot iron poker into his heart and twisting slowly, taking their time. And the feeling sent ice through his veins. He was dying. Slowly. Again.

"No! Dean!" Sam knelt beside, hands hovering, unsure what to do.

"Sam…" Dean gasped, looking helplessly at his little brother as that deadly piece of molten steel dug itself even deeper into his heart.

Familiar hands closed around his, obscuring the flashing silver pocket watch, and Dean turned to meet Castiel's impossibly blue eyes. He opened his mouth to apologize, to say he was sorry for leaving Cas after Cas had left everything for him, to say he was sorry for never taking the angel dancing, for never making him breakfast in bed, for never doing any of those little things that would, in seventyor something years, mean more to them than anything else. But his breath caught in his lungs, hooked on the rusty nails digging into his every organ, and all he managed was a whimpering, strangled noise of regret.

"Shhhh, Dean," Cas said softly and pressed his forehead against the Winchester's, "You're not going anywhere, you're going to live, and you have nothing to apologize for." Their lips met, light, brushing, "It is not yet your time, Dean Winchester."

Castiel sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled Dean's hand, still clenched tight around the watch, to his chest. There was a whisper in the air and then a pair of wings unfolded from the angel's back. Dean had seen them before but they always amazed him. Feathers made of color and light, filling a space with power, somehow feeling much bigger than they actually were. The gray-blue of a sky promising rain swept over the ceiling, speckling stars of pure gold and silver in its wake, a wave of lover's pink rolled across the ceiling, followed by strands of rich topaz, bruise purple, and globules of white-gold-blue light like drips of melting stardust. A tangle of rich crimson and ivory white met flickers of the deepest ocean blue on the walls, Sam's worried face was tinted with a wash of firelight orange and sparkles of strawberry and emerald, and a soft brush of yellow-green danced across Dean and Castiel's clasped hands.

"They call me mellow yellow…" Dean rasped, sagging to the floor. Sam grabbed his shoulders and held him up, muttering empty condolences in his older brother's ear.

"I do not know if this will hurt or not," Castiel said smoothly, curling his wings around all three of them in a protective shell of color and light and intense, concentrated power, "But if it does then I deeply apologize, Dean. And know that I mean none of it."

And then Dean felt as though someone had yanked the iron poker out too fast and he cried out, bucking against the touch of his angel and his brother. Sam's strong hands tightened on his shoulders and held him still and Cas didn't even flinch at the movement, just focused his attention completely on the silver pocket watch that could barely be glimpsed between their fingers. Dean groaned and his voice shook and Sam's mutterings increased to promises of safety because Cas was there and everything would be all right.

"Shut the…fuck up Sammy," Dean ground out between clenched teeth, agony rattling his mind, "You're such a girl."

Hands made of sunlight and a mother's touch and the soft safety of a bed caressed his heart—no, not his heart, his _soul_—and the moaning sigh that escaped Dean's lips was something close to ecstasy. His eyes rolled back as that feeling swept through the entirety of his being. It was like being wrapped in a rainbow that was hurtling through space on the tail of the brightest more beautiful comet in existence and goddamn if that wasn't the gayest thought Dean had ever had (aside for ones he occasionally had about Cas) but it felt good.

It felt right.

He let himself sink into the feeling and a veil of warm darkness curled over his mind and pulled him gratefully under.

* * *

><p>Dean awoke with a gasp and a panicked flail.<p>

His mind told him he was dead but his heart thudded stubbornly in his chest and told him otherwise.

The hunter drew in a shaky breath and glanced around. It was a crappy motel room, not one he recognized but familiar in the cheap state of it. There was Sam sitting at the tiny table with his laptop out and his wide eyes staring at Dean with a worried look that Dean recognized as 'I'm-so-fucking-glad-you're-alive-you-scared-me-don't-ever-do-that-again' with maybe just a hint of 'if-you-act-traumatized-enough-I-might-buy-you-pie.' Dean licked his lips and turned to look for the other occupant he expected to see, that he knew was there because he could feel their presence like sunshine across his bare skin.

Castiel was perched stiffly on the opposite bed, staring at Dean with those vibrant eyes. His hands folded on his lap but when their eyes met, his fingers twitched and he sat up a little straighter. It was the Castiel version of showing relief.

Dean ran a hand through his hair and then shifted forward on the bed, making to swing his legs over the edge so he could stand. Something bumped against his bare chest and he looked down to see his pocket watch resting in its usual place at the end of a silver chain. He raised a hand, hesitated, and then picked it up, flicking the catch and opening the cover.

The glass was still cracked but the hands still ticked and he could still hear the gears clicking and whirring away inside the silver casing. He closed the lid and paused when his fingers brushed the engravings on the outsides. The back was the same protection symbol but there were now Enochian sigils inscribed within in it and, when he turned it over, a symbol he did not recognize was delicately carved to intertwine with his and Sam's initials.

"It's my name." Cas said softly.

He looked up at Castiel with a questioning expression on his face,

"Cas…how am I…what did you do?"

Cas stood and moved across the small space to sit beside Dean on the bed, "I could not fix the watch, but I could keep its gears moving infinitely." He leaned in closer and Dean didn't move as a breath like fresh mountain air washed across his face, "I wove my Grace together with your soul. The watch will not wind down until you…well, until it is time."

"Is this gonna do something to me?" Dean asked and it was the same question he'd asked after he'd brought Castiel to his first climax, "Like, am I gonna be able to smite people with a touch and zap around and shit?"

"No." Castiel answered and his fingers brushed the back of Dean's hand. Sam made a noise as if to remind them he was still in the room as well but they ignored him, "You will remain human but your soul," The angel leaned in closer still and their noses were almost touching, "Will be forever intertwined with mine. From now and beyond time itself, we are one being, forever entangled together. I will always be aware of you and you will forever be aware of me."

"So we're angel married?" Dean breathed, lips brushing Castiel's.

"If you wish to look at that way, then yes. Though angels do not wed."

"So this awareness thing…can you tell what I'm feeling? Know my location, that kind of thing?"

"I always know where you are, Dean." Castiel tilted his head at just the right angle so that they could move even closer together, "But yes, I will be aware of your emotional state. And you will be aware of mine."

"Yeah, figured that out already," Dean murmured, "And right now you're horny as a fuck."

And then they were kissing in earnest, lips locked together, exploring one another's mouths, hands claiming each other's bodies. Fingers explored shoulders and elbows, traced hip bones beneath jeans and the space between thighs, pushed aside shirt and coat and the buttons on pants. They might have heard Sam make a noise that would accompany a 'I-can't-believe-you-two-sometimes' bitchface, they might have heard the door open and slam shut, and even if they did they would not have paid attention.

Colors and lights flooded the seedy motel room, painting the walls in burgundy and gold and silver-white and the ceiling in glorious cerulean and purple-black and burnished bronze. They coated Dean and Castiel in streams of emeralds and diamonds and rubies and their bodies sunk into melted pools of topaz and liquid opals and sapphires as they lay into ripples of rainbows and curls of crystal and glass.

Dean reached a hand up (or down, his sense of direction was lost in the swirl of lights and color) and wove his fingers into those wonderful feathers. They hummed with energy against his skin and sent a thrill through his entire body. Castiel sensed it and pressed his own hand between Dean's legs, wedging his fingers under the hem of Dean's jeans. Dean made a noise of desperation against Castiel's mouth and ruthlessly fought with the zipper and button on Cas' black dress pants.

They were lost, together, in a universe that was light and color and the touch of each other's skin.

Castiel's lips explored Dean's care chest, tracing the hunter's skin from his hips, up his stomach, around his heart, and then at his collarbone. The pocket watch ticked, hot and metallic, pressed between them, the engravings on its surfaces burning against their skin. Dean's fingers traced the angel-banishing scar that he had carved into Cas' stomach during the Apocalypse and then traveled up and around the angel's shoulders to weave into the delicate, smooth light-feathers at the angel's back. Castiel moaned and arched against Dean.

The two of them—angel and man—twined together in lights and colors and shadows. Their bodies pressed against one another's, mingling with skin and sweat and spit, and their souls weaved together inexplicably tighter.

They were bound together in word, in touch, in passion, in love, and in soul.

Dean and Castiel were one.

And the turning gears of the pocket watch around Dean's neck wound them even tighter together.


	23. Heaven on Earth

_I wanted to just describe them because I enjoy describing them way, way too much and I'm pretty sure you guys get sick of all the metaphorical stuff I throw around. So here, have some more._

_In other news, I have only two these to say about episode 17. Cop out. Cop out and fan appeasement. Sir, I am disappoint. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am quite pleased that Cas came back and, good heavens, that episode was nothing but Destiel, but it just felt like...it felt like they'd written themselves into a corner and Cas was the only way to get it out. So they brought him back and then promptly left him behind. He'd better come back again because I friggin' CHEERED when Dean pulled the trench coat out of the back of the car. Because that meant he'd kept it with, he'd taken it out of the Impala and kept it with him the entire time. That and Lucifer were the best parts of that episode. Bring Gabriel back too and I might start enjoying it again._

_There. I threw in my two cents. Now enjoy this one shot._

* * *

><p><strong>Like Heaven on Earth<strong>

* * *

><p>If he has to relate them to something, he can't do it in one word. There isn't a single word or even a single paragraph that can describe them and everything they are; sound, sensation, taste, smell, presence. But when Sam asks, he just says they're awesome. What he means, though, goes something like this in his head:<p>

The first thing he always seems to notice are the colors.

The first impression is always of rainbows but it's not rainbows because there are more colors than the universe knows what to do with. And compared to that, a rainbow seems like a black and white scribble across the sky. And they never stay the same, they shift and roll and swirl like ripples or waves, tangling together and breaking apart and somehow still staying in the same shape. He has seen every color on God's green earth and beyond in them and he loves the way the colors seep into a room, sink into every corner, paint the walls and drip off edges.

With the color comes the light.

It pulses and flares, a heartbeat through the colors, it radiates from every curve and hangs in the air in sparkling spheres. It trails across the walls in iridescent streaks of silver and gold and flickers with each movement like a billion stars captured in a single space.

When they spread wide, there's the impression of galaxies and stars and supernovas and black holes and sunlight and melting glass and shattering crystal and he understands what Jimmy meant when he said it was like being chained to a comet.

But he loves it, riding that comet.

He sinks into pools of melted gold and sapphire blue glass crushed so finely that it's powder. Blue from the bluest sky there ever was slides down the muscles of his arms, the delicate burgundy-pink of cherry blossoms pools at the base of his neck, emeralds cast in sunlight scatter at his feet, the burning red-orange-yellow of fire runs down his cheek and brushes lips, diamonds trapped in a sweet molasses of velvet crimson and taffy sea green drip between the muscles of his chest, and he catches rich fractures of topaz and amethyst and early morning mist between his fingers.

But there's not just sight to it all, there's also touch and smell and, hell, there's taste too.

They feel like a thousand drums beating against his skin, thrumming through his entire body, just off beat of his heart enough to send him shuddering. They buzz and tremble against his fingertips, alive and beating with energy and life and power.

When they wrap around him, they are the warmth of a mother's embrace, they are the firmness of a father's hand, they are the gentle brush of the lips of a lover, they are the whisper of sweet nothings on a summer night, they are the heat of the sun on a perfect day, they are the coolness of ice in the glass after a hard day's work. They are silk and flower petals, they are smoothly polished wood and the gentle curve of a glass bottle, they are diamonds, they are more delicate than a thin shred of crystal on the rim of a wine glass and more powerful than even the strongest metal on earth.

They are both old and new, forever young and the most ancient things on the face of the planet.

When he buries his face in them, which he likes to do after a particularly bad day, it is like taking a breath of air so fresh it was as though God had created it in that very second just for him. They smell of pine trees in the crisp winter night, of freshly cut grass, of the sea from a long way off, of spring rain just around the corner, of melted steel and frozen things and sunlight on concrete and, occasionally, of blood.

They are sweet apple juice and fresh berries, they are an ozone bite at the back of his teeth, they are raindrops from Heaven, they are sweetness and spice and bitterness and delight layered in cinnamon and pepper with just a hint of nutmeg. They are burnt and charred, they are fresh and soft and delicious, they are the rarest and finest of all wines and the simplest and most common glass of tap water. They are crushed herbs, they are too much salt and too little sugar, they are the last, stale piece of bread that nobody wants, and they are the sweetest candy ever to come from Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

That is when they are alone together, caught in bliss and flesh and light and sweat and color and kisses.

When there is anger, when there is defense, when there is fighting, they are different. Everything changes when the sword comes into his hand and there is blood to be spilt and justice to be done and lives to save.

The colors become furious, boiling thunderclouds of black, gray, and bruise blue and purple tinged in ghostly green. Lightning of bright violet, neon cerulean, and blinding white fork through them and he's sometimes reminded of the way Raphael's had manifested. But these are infinitely more impressive. Massive displays of power that fill the room, thunder rolling around in a single space, galaxies exploding within clouds of iron black, supernovas captured in black holes all churned together in a storm that makes him shiver with a thrill he can never place.

When they are filled with anger and protectiveness, they are like standing in the eye of a hurricane. He's only stood by them once and the lightning flickering across his skin is better than any Magic Fingers bed.

But that is when there is anger too great to be contained.

Usually they are…

They are sunlight and moonlight and starlight and the green of the grass on the other side of the fence. They are galaxies and stars and planets and nebulas and black holes and the way the sun reflects off the surface of the water and the rippling patterns it makes on the soft sand below. They are ice and diamonds and rubies and the heart of the sun burning a thousand times, dying a thousand times, and then bursting to life again. They are the light of every dying star, of every flying comet, of every glimmer that ever existed in the whole of the universe. They are also the shadows in the corner behind the door, they are the night on the other side of the window, they are the blackness beyond the curtains, and they are the darkest darkness that ever existed anywhere. They are soft and they are crystal and they are warm and they are steel and they are glass and they are a summer breeze and they are lightning and they are acid and they are time and space and light and color all packed into one glorious visage.

And they are his.

And they are theirs.

So when Dean simply tells Sam that Castiel's wings are awesome, what he means is this:

"They are my everything. They are my paradise. They are my safety and my sword. They are my Heaven on Earth."


	24. The Apple Pie and Ice Cream Conundrum

_I find myself highly entertained by the domestic shots. Especially when Sam winds up dealing with all the crap that comes from it. _

_I kind of set this after Season 5 but with a different sort of ending. Sam's not in the Pit with Lucifer and Michael, for one thing. And Castiel stayed down on Earth for another. I'll just insert the obligatory shrug and let you get on with it._

* * *

><p><strong>The Apple Pie and Ice Cream Conundrum<strong>

**(Domestic Life! Comes complete with non-dishwasher safe pans, mismatched curtains, disastrous movie nights, and questions about who's wearing the pants. Porn not included.)**

* * *

><p>The world being short of apocalyptic disasters and hunts being few and far between, Bobby promptly kicked the Winchesters and their angel out of his house.<p>

And then Sam put his foot down when Dean muttered about finding a motel.

That was how they ended up with a house.

It wasn't too far from Bobby's but sat smack-dab on the edge of a perfect little suburban neighborhood that Dean had made gagging noises at when they'd found it. The house was three stories (Dean said one and a half because the slanted roof on the third floor made it smaller), with a small front yard and a fenced in back, a covered porch leading out into the open space. It had all the basic essentials; a decent sized kitchen, a dining room, a sitting room (which Dean immediately filled with a flat screen and massive stereo because, damn it, if he was going to domesticate he was going to do it properly), enough bathrooms for the three of them, four bedrooms, and a garage for Dean's precious Impala.

"Wait, why are you living with us?" Sam asked when Castiel quickly claimed the bedroom on the third floor as his own.

Cas simply tilted his head to the side and said, "I am Dean's angel. I go where he goes." And left it at that as if that explained everything. Sam didn't push it; Cas and Dean might have been an item, but the way they went about it was the sometimes completely baffling to Sam.

Like when they were redecorating the place, for instance, and had stopped at a furniture store to look at couches and chairs for the sitting room. Dean threw himself onto a particularly large sofa, tucked his hands behind his head, and exclaimed that this couch was perfect and they'd take it. To which Castiel had said in his usual flat monotone that it did not go with the paint or the carpet and that they would not be getting it. A small bickering match ensued during which Sam left them standing over the couch, found something cheap, comfortable, and decent looking, purchased it, and then dragged them out of the store still picking at one another.

And then, on the other hand, there was the time when they were doing the dishes together after dinner. Sam had wandered into the kitchen for a drink and paused in the doorway, frowning at the backs of his brother and the angel as they moved in an easy rhythm in front of the sink.

"—and I shoved the gun into the fucker's mouth and fired." Dean was saying, elbow deep in soapy water as grasped for the next thing to be washed. They had a dishwasher but not everything was dishwasher safe and Dean made a big, bitchy fit when it was his turn to do the dishes. Sam figured it was all just a ruse and, lo and behold, it probably had been.

"That does not sound like a very effective method for destroying a demon possessed giraffe, Dean." Castiel responded, methodically drying a thick, metal spatula. He paused in the process, peered at the spatula and then dropped the spatula back into the water in front of Dean, "And you did not clean this properly. There are still hamburger bits stuck to it."

"Dude!" Dean whined, turning just enough so that Sam could see the hand towel stuck into the front pocket of his jeans, "That was perfectly clean! I was almost done too!"

"It was not clean." Castiel responded flatly, picking up a pan from rack and starting to dry it, "I'm an angel of the Lord. I know when things are clean."

Dean made a huffing noise and viciously began scrubbing at the offending kitchen utensil like he was trying to scrape the shine off of it. After a moment or two of angry silence, he spat out,

"I am so not banging you tonight."

"Then I'm not giving you that blowjob you so desperately want tomorrow."

"Fine! Then I'm not going to touch your wings."

"Fine."

"For a week!"

"Fine." And with that Castiel's light and color wings unfolded from his back. Sam didn't know what had changed that had enabled him to see them though the popular theory was that his brief moment of possession by Lucifer had triggered it. Whatever the reason, he could see them now and he could see the way Cas was shoving the feathers down the back of Dean's jeans.

"You teasing sonuvabitch." Dean growled, "If you don't stop that I'm gonna—."

"Fuck my brains out?"

"Stop reading my mind! That's cheating!"

"No. I like your fantasies, even if some of them are ludicrous."

"Oh yeah? I bet you could make them come true anyway."

"If I so desired."

"That's really fuckin' kinky, Cas…"

Sam was suddenly not thirsty anymore and booked it out of there because the last thing he wanted to see was actual proof that his brother and an angel had done _that thing_ in every room of the house regardless of whether Sam was at home or not.

He especially had not wanted to see what they did with the rubber gloves Dean had been wearing to scrub the pans.

Then there were the movies nights.

Friday night, every Friday night, without argument and without fail (unless there was a hunt to be done), Sam, Dean, and Cas gathered in the sitting room and watched a new movie. They would all start on the couch together, eating popcorn and laughing or yelling at the appropriate moments. But eventually Dean and Cas would somehow end up taking up the entire couch and Sam would find himself on the floor or on one of the chairs.

And generally, by the end of the movie, Sam would be alone in the room, watching the credits roll by. Or it would be Dean and Castiel tangled together on the couch, covered in popcorn, and completely ignoring the climactic final scene in favor of their own climactic final scene.

The only times this didn't happen was during movies with heavy action, Bruce Willis, or ones that pertained to God.

The rest of the days were fairly normal, standard, people-every-day kind of days.

Castiel generally kept house when the Winchesters went off to work (garage mechanic and bartender weren't exactly glamorous but it was better than nothing) and somehow brought in his own paycheck by doing some strange religious thing online that he refused to make either brother privy too. For lack of response there, Dean proceeded to tease him about being the "stay at home mom" and the "housewife" until Sam pointed out that Dean wasn't exactly wearing the pants in the relationship either.

Like, for example, the time Dean had been watching television. It wasn't because there was anything particularly good on, it was just that Dean had nothing better to do and was lounging around lazily. He had his feet propped up on the coffee table and his hands resting on his stomach in such a way that said he had probably just finished off the last of that blueberry pie that had been in the fridge.

A basketball game was making its way across the screen when Castiel swept into the room and knocked Dean's feet off the table.

"Dude, hey, what the hell?"

"Go do the vacuuming, Dean." Castiel replied flatly as he went about washing the windows, a spray bottle of glass cleaner in one hand and a washcloth in the other. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed up passed his elbows and there was another washcloth sticking out of the back pocket of his pants.

"Can't you just mojo the dirt and stuff away?" Dean griped, putting his feet back up on the table to watch the game.

Cas stood and crossed the room to the other window, shoving Dean's feet off the coffee table again as he went, and said, "That is not how normal people clean their homes. Now go do the vacuuming."

"God, fine…" Dean rolled his eyes but got to his feet and plodded out of the room, making more noise than necessary.

"And stop stomping around the house," Castiel called after him.

Dean proceeded to make even more noise but at least he did what Castiel asked of him.

Then there had been the whole curtain incident that had involved flower patterns, way too many measuring tapes, several broken screwdrivers, and Dean being forced to spend a week in the guest bedroom.

They didn't talk about it.

And really, that was okay.

Because as fucked up as their life was, as crazy and unbalanced and unnatural as their life was, it was a life. Two hunters and an angel, a high school drop out, an ex-blood junkie, and Mr. Comatose sharing a house, a life.

It was the most awkward and dysfunctional family in existence.

And they were okay with that.


	25. Nicknames

_There's about thirteen unfinished shots sitting in my Wings and Things folder. I start them and then they kind of just…poop out halfway through. This is a problem._

* * *

><p><strong>Nicknames<strong>

* * *

><p>"The Beast."<p>

"No.

"Beastly."

"No."

"Monster!"

"No, Dean."

"…Sex Machine."

"_No_."

"Hammer of God."

"I have already told you my opinion of that title. And using it in the context of our sexual activities is…degrading."

"Psh, you're such a killjoy."

"That one is fine."

"No it's not.

"Why do you get to pick it?"

"Because I'm your most fantastic Lord of Love."

"Really? Because last night I distinctly remember you saying you were my bitch when I made you—."

"_The point is_ that I get to pick it because…because."

"That is not an argument."

"Don't nitpick because you know you're wrong. Oh, I got one, The Legend."

"No."

"You're making this difficult."

"Then stop picking silly ones."

"All right. The Dragon!"

"Absolutely not."

"Dick Master."

"_Dean_."

"Haha, geez, don't get all smity on me, I was just kidding. How about Sex Lord?"

"No."

"Hammer of Sex."

"No."

"You are so hard to please, Rainbow Dash."

"I am not a pony, Dean."

"Dude, how do you even _know_?"

"Sam showed me—."

"Nah—no—uh-uh! Rule Three: No brothers mentioned in bed!"

"You asked."

"Pretend I didn't. Bedroom Rules, Cas, there's a reason for them. Now where were we?"

"Rainbow Dash."

"Oh, right, yeah. Hm. Okay, Rocket Man."

"No. That does not make sense."

"Choir Boy."

"I find that derogatory and somewhat vile."

"Good. If you had said yes to that, I might have to punch you."

"You would have broken your hand."

"Doesn't matter, you would have deserved it. Magic Fingers."

"Definitely not. I am not a bed."

"The _Vibrator_…!"

"Dean…"

"Overlord of Hot Sweaty Love?"

"No."

"Fine, I give up, what do you want?"

"I want you to call me by name. I want you to call me Castiel. I want you to call my name so that all of Heaven hears it. I want you to call my name so loudly that even Hell will hear it. I want you to scream my name until you cannot scream anymore and then I want you to whisper it like it is a sacred thing that no one else is aloud to hear."

"…Wow Cas, that's kinda kinky. I kinda like it. Do you wanna try and see if you can make me scream that loud right now?"

"I do not need to try, Dean."


	26. Trust Issues

_I write things while I watch television._

* * *

><p><strong>Trust Issues<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean hated witches.<p>

Dean. Fucking. Hated. Witches.

It never ceased to amaze him what they were capable of doing. Actually, replace the words "amaze him" with "piss him the fuck off".

Hunting witches was nothing new; Dean had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The water that the witch had flung at him had been warped by a spell and, when it had splashed across his face, had seared his eyes with a furious burn.

Sam had dealt with the witch as Dean had clawed furiously at his eyes, shouting painfully. There was a lot of scuffling, Sam hauling him around, the familiar smell and texture of the interior of the Impala, the rumble of the engine, a drive while Dean's eyes remained shut and continued to burn, and then the musty stench of the motel room.

It turned out that the witch had cursed the water and stolen Dean's sight.

Needless to say, Dean was not happy. Anything not nailed down in the motel room was smashed and he ended up with several bruises on his ankles and shins. Sam took the time to calm him down, cleaned him up as best he could, and then drove them both to Bobby's because he couldn't think of anything better to do.

Bobby didn't have an answer either.

Another Dean Winchester style temper tantrum later, they called Castiel.

Dean felt the angel enter the room immediately. There was the soft rustle of wings and then the warmth of a friendly fireplace, the feeling of a group hug, the sensation of sunlight through the branches of fresh, green branches on a summer afternoon, the smell of the first snow and spring rain tangled together with pine needles and the heavy scent of the still air before a thunderstorm. Dean was intimately familiar with all of this.

He sat still on the couch as Cas' fingers brushed the skin around his eyes, felt the angel's own solid blue gaze on him and could almost hear the reprimands spinning in Castiel's mind.

"Yes," Cas said after a moment of silent contemplation, "I can heal him." There was a sigh of relief from Sam, "But I won't."

"Excuse me!"

"What the hell!"

"Cas!"

"This is the perfect learning opportunity." The angel spoke loudly over the protesting voices of the three other men in the room, "Dean has…trust issues." Dean sputtered at the comment but was ignored, "He cannot see and must rely on the rest of us to help him. I intend to take this chance to teach him a lesson." The hard note in Cas' voice softened, "I want him—I want _you_, Dean—to know that you don't have to keep carrying these things by yourself. We are here for you. We are here to help you. And you can trust us. With anything."

Under any other circumstance, Dean might have had a little empathy and gone along with Castiel's soft request. As it was, he was blind and his angel boyfriend refused to heal him.

He promptly had the equivalent of another temper tantrum.

* * *

><p>"Dean, get out of bed."<p>

"No."

"You can't stay there all day."

"I fucking can and I fucking will."

"You're being stupid."

"Tough." Dean crossed his arms over his chest and sunk down lower in his bedsheets, "I'm not getting out of bed until Cas heals me."

Sam made a frustrated noise and threw his hands into the air in defeat. The bandages that had been wrapped around Dean's eyes yesterday were gone and the full force of his angry scowl was clear on his face. The only thing that was different was the disconcerting lack of color in his irises. What once was deep forest green was now pale and washed out gray. And Dean was glaring at a point two inches to the left of Sam's head.

"Dean, please, you're being ridiculous." There was no answer from his brother, "You gotta leave to eat, you know." Another angry pause, "We're not brining your food up to you."

Dean's lower lip stuck out a little bit, his jaw worked as he tried to think of a reasonable excuse, and then grunted and swung his legs off the bed. Only he misjudged the distance and slammed one foot into the bedside stand and ended up cursing. Sam sighed and grabbed his older brother's upper arm. Dean made to jerk away, hesitated, and then allowed Sam to steer him off the bed and out of the bedroom.

He felt a lurch in his stomach as he lowered his foot down that first step on the stairway. It was weird and kind of frightening, not being able to see. Dean kept telling himself to mentally open his eyes, that the darkness would fade when he opened a door or turned a corner. Last night he'd automatically fumbled for the light switch and started swearing up storm when he realized a) he couldn't find it and b) it would have been pointless anyway.

The smell of food distracted him from his moody thoughts and he lifted his head, turning it in the direction of the smell. The floor felt familiar under his feet and he knew they were headed towards the kitchen. He yanked his arm away from Sam, determined to go the rest of the way himself, and ended up scattering a pile of books, backing away from them to bump into a small hallstand, and then rolling off of it and smacking into a wall.

He was still swearing when Sam forced him into a chair at the kitchen table.

* * *

><p>Being sightless was an adventure.<p>

An obnoxious, kill-me-now, humorous to everyone but you kind of adventure.

Trying to eat breakfast had been a pain in the ass but Dean had solidly refused to allow anyone to feed him.

It was agreed by all parties that they would never speak of the bathroom incident, even under pain of death.

Then there had been an argument with Sam about going outside, followed by a similar argument with Bobby, both of which Dean lost. He skulked around the house for a while, stumbling into piles of books and boxes, tripping over carpet edges, and catching himself on corners when his hand following the wall dropped into empty space. He didn't know if he was trying to annoy everyone, get them to throw him a pity party, or if he was simply bored. More than likely it was a combination of all three.

After lunch, Dean fell asleep on the couch. He didn't mean to but he was cranky and tired and bored and the sunlight coming in through the big windows was warm. He'd drifted off before he'd realized what was happening. At least he could still see in his dreams. Albeit his dreams were convoluted and psychedelic as dreams tend to be but they were something, even if Dean didn't remember what they had been about when he woke up.

He woke up because his hunter instincts told him that someone was watching him.

He felt his eyelids open and cursed at the darkness that was still there, his frame tense, wary. Waking up a Winchester, whether you were family or not, was a dangerous thing. Waking up a blind Winchester who was pissed as hell was likely to get you a death sentence provided said Winchester could find you fast enough to stab you.

But Dean was only wired for a second before he slowly unwound. The sun had moved since he'd fallen asleep and was no longer coming through the windows but the room still felt as though it was filled with sunlight. There was the presence of storm clouds in the distance and the light on in the house when you arrive home late at night that means someone you love has been waiting up for you.

"Cas, we talked about you watching me while I sleep." Dean grunted sullenly, relaxing across the couch again. He didn't know whether he should close his eyes again or not. In the end, he didn't.

"Sorry." He heard the angel say, "I wanted to see how you were getting along."

"Shittly."

"I do not think that is an actual word."

"Lemme tell you how much I care."

There was silence. Dean could practically sense Castiel's I-don't-know-what-I'm-supposed-to-do-here mindset. Had he been in a better mood, he might have taken pity on the angel but Dean was too frustrated to care. Not to mention that he was a little sore at Cas for not healing his eyes. That had stung.

"Do you need anything?"

Dean blinked (and mentally swore at the uselessness of the gesture) and turned his head in the direction he had heard Cas' voice coming from. He thought about it. He wanted his sight back, being blinded was a massive inconvenience, but when Cas put his foot down about something, it took a lot to get him to move again (a lot usually ended up being sex and Dean was not in the mood for it).

"Lay down with me." He ordered, shuffling backwards on the couch cushions so that he was pressed against the back. Castiel didn't even hesitate. There was the rustle of fabric and then the familiar smell of spices and crystal winters filled his nose, the worn texture of the trench coat warm against his arm, the warm burn of the angel's Grace bubbling against his skin.

Dean's forehead brushed Cas' and the angel automatically captured the hunter's mouth in his. Dean let him do it and used the opportunity to run his hand down Cas' side to rest on his partner's thigh. They parted but their heads remained together.

"You are bothered by my refusal to heal you." Castiel said in a low voice and the gravel in his tones but Dean's stomach hot.

"Yeah, I'm bothered by it. Kind of dick move, don't you think?"

"Tell me what bothers you most about it."

"I don't like the tone of voice you're using. It sounds way to therapeutic to be safe. Did Sammy put you up to this?"

"Sam is too busy…what do you call it?"

"Bitchfacing."

"Yes. That. He is…bitchfacing downstairs. At least, he does it at me every time I come into the room."

"Ha, so he's pissed at you too." Dean felt more pleased by this than he should and Cas, obviously sensing it (or maybe it showed on Dean's face), slid his hand under Dean's shirt to rub the other man's ribs. Dean squirmed and Cas pulled his hand away.

"Tell me what bothers you most about this." Castiel insisted again and Dean would have rolled his eyes if he thought it would have made difference.

"Fine, you know wanna what bothers me? The way you're all treating me like a invalid. I hate the way Sam seems to think I'm just going to stand in the same spot and cry unless he guides me around. I hate the way Bobby pretends way to hard that I'm not suddenly inconvenient. I hate that I have to rely on everyone else because, goddamn, they're supposed to rely on me and if you dare repeat that to anyone else I swear to…to whatever that I'm going to murder you."

Dean thought he felt Cas smile but he was ranting now, he was on a roll, and the words just kept coming, riding the wave of frustration, "I'm pissed at you for not healing me and trying to teach me a lesson. I hate that you think you had to do that because it reminds me of Gabriel and I hate that dick. I hate that I can't see the scrap yard or the food I'm eating or even the way the fucking sunlight comes through the dirty windows and makes pretty patterns all over the floor. I hate that I can't see Bobby giving me that "Dad" look. I hate that I can't see Sam bitchfacing and worrying and that I can't take care of him. I hate that I can't see you staring at me when you think I'm not looking. I hate that I can't watch you epically fail at humanity. I hate that I can't see you at all."

Dean dropped his voice and tightened his grip on Cas, "I hate that I can't see your gorgeous fucking wings and that you won't _let me_ see them."

Castiel was quiet for a moment and then there was a soft rushing noise and Dean felt as though the room had suddenly gotten very crowded. Sunlight, fire, electricity, and sweet static sparks brushed across his cheeks and his hand automatically flew up to stroke the light-feathers he knew where there.

"I think," Castiel said slowly, "That the lesson has been taught."

"Good. You gonna give me my eyes back now?"

There was the barest hint of a smile in Cas' voice, "Not yet. I would like to try something first."

Dean grinned, he couldn't help it, "Wow Cas, that's hot. So, why don't you mojo us on upstairs and we can—."

"No," Castiel growled and he was suddenly straddling Dean, "I want you here. I want you in this sunlit room. I want you to sit in darkness and I want you to trust me while I sit in the light."

"Dude, your poetry is killing the mood."

Hot lips pressed against his, hands groped at his belt. Dean tangled one hand in the feathers of the wings above him while the other wandered across Castiel's form to find the angel's pants button. Only to discover that Cas wasn't wearing any clothes.

"Mojoing your clothes off? So not fair."

"Trust me, Dean. I need you to trust me."

A warm, honest smile,

"I already do."


	27. Sappy Romance Preview

_Sorry I haven't been around folks. I got dragged into another fandom and I'm still rolling around in it like a nerd. I can't help it, I see a tall gangly man and I'm gone (dang it, Once-Ler why do you have to be so tall!) _

_But anyway, I can't seem to finish any of my one shots so I'm going to drop this preview of this full length Destiel fic I've been poking at here and see what you guys think of it. It's an AU where demons, angels, shifters, werewolves, and such are called Unnaturals and live in broad daylight and have the same rights as everyone else (in most places). Demons aren't really from hell and angels aren't really from heaven, they are just called such because of their appearances. _

_This fic would contain DeanxCastiel, SamxJess, wing!kink, tail!kink, possibly oil gland!kink, and there would also be special guest appearances from Gabriel, Balthazar, Ruby, and several others._

_So if you guys like this little preview, lemme know and I'll post the fic as a stand alone._

* * *

><p><strong>The Title of This Sappy Romance Novel<strong>

* * *

><p>Dean Winchester did not like bookstores.<p>

And bookstores generally felt the same way about Dean Winchester. There was no segregation between humans and Unnaturals on Empyrean but some races stood out a little more than others. Werewolves, skinwalkers, witches, and the like could blend in well enough but demons, like Dean, fae, and angels stood out more. Extra appendages like wings and tails, horns and claws, tended to do that.

Dean's long, thin tail was currently rolled up against his back, the spade on its tip flared in his agitation. The tail position was partly because he didn't want to knock any displays over and partly because he was frustrated with his younger brother.

"Quit looking like you're about to be attacked." Sam Winchester scoffed, his own tail uncurling to prod his brother in the side, "No one's going to take a stab at us, we're in a bookstore."

Dean scratched at the base of one of his horns, small compared to his brother's curling ones, "Why'd you drag me along with you again, Giantopolos?"

Sam bitchfaced at him (Number 23: 'stop being so immature and act your age while we're in public') and turned away with a huff. Even though he was younger than Dean, Sam was at least a head taller than his older brother. If his height wasn't intimidating enough, he had a pair of black and redish-brown bat-like wings folded carefully behind his back and his tail was thicker than Dean's, his shoulders broader. To be fair Dean was, in his own right, a tough looking demon with jagged black horns, piercing green eyes, and a whip-thin tail that could snap out at lightning speed if it needed to. But where Dean paraded himself around proudly, Sam was more conservative.

He was a law student, working towards his degree with a steady stubbornness that Dean would never openly admit to being proud of. And if there wasn't some form of irony in a demon becoming a lawyer, than Dean was straighter than a straightedge (bi, actually, with a flare for the dangerous and dramatic).

"Just help me find some books for class." Sam thrust a paper under Dean's nose, pulling his brother up short, "They should be in the somewhere over by the 'How To' stuff. I'm going to the 'Political Sciences' section. Don't do anything to piss anybody off."

Dean snatched the paper out of Sam's hand, making a face, "I'll do what I want, bitch."

"Jerk." Sam snapped back playfully and walked away before Dean could get another word in. The eldest Winchester snorted and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, trotting off through the shelves to the 'How To' part of the bookstore.

It wasn't hard to find, only a few paces away from the checkout desk that lined the wall in front of a display of new releases and ridiculously fancy bookmarks. Dean's gaze immediately fell on a rather questionable looking book and pulled a hand out of his pocket to reach for it. Unfortunately, this sent the paper Sam had given him drifting to the floor. The demon spun to catch it, missed, and had to bend over to scoop it off the thinly carpeted floor. His tail curled in even tighter in his irritation and the spade on the end flared even wider.

Dean turned back around and found a pair of eyes on him.

It was for the briefest of seconds, barely a breath of a look, but Dean Winchester knew when someone was checking him out and that dark-haired man behind the counter had _definitely_ been checking him out. But, of course, Dean being Dean, he pretended not to notice. He half turned, watching the man out of the corner of his eye, and started searching for the books Sam wanted. He let his tail unfurl slowly, rolling all the way down to the floor and then back up to his waist again like a yo-yo in slow motion. He could feel the other watching him.

Dean grabbed one of the books of the shelf, checked it against the list, and then turned, intending to face the other bookshelf. Except that he made the mistake of glancing at the man behind the counter. And froze.

A pair of wide, impossibly blue eyes stared at him underneath a scruffy mop of black hair. A blink, a pink tinge creeping up pale cheeks, and then the man behind the counter had ducked away in a flurry of blue-black feathers.

Dean blinked several times and looked around but the man—the _angel_—was nowhere in sight. Shaking his head and frowning a little, he made to turn back to the bookshelf…and found himself face-to-face with his towering younger brother.

"Sam! What the hell!"

Sam was grinning and it was almost a mirror of that shit-eating grin that Dean used to antagonize people he didn't like. Dean didn't like it either. At all.

"What?" The older brother grunted, shifting his weight back and forth.

"I saw you checking that angel out." Sam teased, a stack of books under one arm, the end of his tail flicking up and down against the floor.

Dean growled in the back of his throat, shoved the book he was holding at his younger brother, and turned away, making sure his own tail smacked across Sam's ankles as he went. Sam only chuckled and grabbed another couple of books of the shelf. He only teased his brother because (aside from it being the brotherly thing to do) Dean had teased him so much when Sam had hooked up with Jess. Well, that and Dean's relationships never usually lasted past the bedroom. The current record was a week.

It wasn't that Dean was mean or horrible to his partners, he just couldn't commit. He said he didn't want to be tied down but Sam figured it was because he was scared. Dean just wanted to make everybody happy and he was very close to his family. Picking a mate seemed like a responsibility to him and, if Sam had his theories right, Dean just didn't know how to make a commitment on that level.

But these were Sam Theories and for all Sam knew, maybe Dean actually _didn't_ want to be tied down.

"Are you going to come up to the checkout with me or are you going to keep skulking behind the shelves like a teenaged girl?" Sam asked as he hefted up his armful of books. It was something of an amusing sight, an extremely tall demon with thick, red-black horns curved almost like those of a ram standing there with a stack of books to help him study law. Dean would have laughed if he'd been in the mood for it.

Instead, he plucked a book off the shelf and flipped it open with a bored look on his face, "Nope. I'll just wait here for you. And I'm not skulking."

"Whatever." Sam rolled his eyes, rustled his wings and headed over to the checkout. Dean watched him over the top of the book in his hands, careful to stay at the corner of the bookshelf so he could duck quickly behind it if necessary. There were only two clerks on duty and the other was busy which meant Sam was left with the angel.

He wasn't really an angel like from Heaven, just like Dean and Sam weren't really demons from Hell. But appearances make an impact on humans and the names stuck. It wasn't a burden, really, because people had generally learned by now that just because something was named a demon didn't make it evil and just because something was named an angel, it didn't make it good.

Dean watched as the angel let the barest hint of a smile cross his features, really it was more a twitch of the lips, a courtesy towards a customer that definitely didn't reach those ice chip blue eyes. Sam said something, his tail twisting into a spiral behind one leg, and the angel said something in return, nodding as he did so. He heard Sam laugh and for some reason felt like it was at his expense. The angel clerk scanned the books in, nodding at Sam's laugh, typed something up on the computer, and then said something else. Sam shook his head and scratched one of his horns. The angel's gaze flickered briefly up to those horns and then he said something else, pausing in his work for the briefest of seconds. Dean's green eyes lingered on the way the angel's fingers hovered over the keyboard. Sam rubbed a hand over one horn and said something in reply, his tail untwisting and swaying down to his ankles. The angel's head canted to the side, his eyebrows drawing in just a hair, and spark flickering in those blue eyes just enough to make him look curious and slightly confused. Dean's own tail rippled and wound itself around and around his leg, tightening into the fabric of his jeans.

Okay, this really had to _stop_.

He deliberately stepped behind the shelf, shoved the book back into its place, and stared very hard at a display with a bunch of books depicting boring politicians with smiles promising better times that never came. He stared at them hard, looking at every ugly wrinkle and strand of grey hair until his tail unwound itself from his leg and resumed its default position of hanging down in a slight S-curve, the spade slightly flared and pointing up towards the ceiling.

"Hey Dean—."

"God fucking damn it, Sammy!" Dean leapt a good half a foot in the air, arms flailing as he spun around in agitation to face his brother.

Sam cocked an eyebrow and glanced at the display of political biographies before looking back at Dean, "Thinking about dating politicians now, Dean?"

"Just trying to decide which one's ugliest." The snort that came from Sam was one of disbelief so of course Dean was required to tack on an insult, "So far, none of them are quite as ugly as you."

Bitchface Number 40 appeared ('that was lame and totally uncalled for') and Dean smirked, figuring he'd just won a round. Without looking back at the checkout counter and firmly telling himself that there was totally _not_ a pair of blue eyes watching him saunter away, Dean started for the exit, sticking a hand in the pocket of his jeans and fondling the keys to his car. Sam hurried after him, plastic bag full of books thumping against his leg, and together the two brothers stepped out into the overcast afternoon.

The last dregs of summer had finally let go and been blown away by the crisp fall wind and as the cold fingers promising frost sought to bite through their clothes, Sam opened his wings slightly to catch the draft. It made the membranes between the boney fingers stretch and bulge and Dean glanced at him before returning his attention to the black Chevy Impala he was unlocking. He slid into the driver's seat, tail sliding up to curl against the inside of the door, and then waited for Sam to get in after him. His younger brother stuffed the bag of books into the back seat, carefully folded up his wings, and ducked into the car. He shifted slightly, trying to get the ends of his wings to hang of the sides of the seats, and finally leaned back and gave Dean a nod.

Brocas Helm was singing about lovers of the dark stepping into the light as Dean started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. Sam propped his elbow at the bottom of the window and put his chin in his hand, staring out as the world flashed by. Dean drummed his fingers against the wheel in time to the music, occasionally bursting out to sing along with his favorite parts of a song. Sam waited until they were well on their way home before he spoke over top of Def Leppard proclaiming that the rock of ages was indeed still rolling.

"His name's Castiel."

Dean immediately knew what he was talking about but decided to play dumb and pretended he was entirely too focused on the road, "Huh?"

"The angel at the checkout, his name is Castiel."

Dean grunted and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Def Leppard proudly announced that they had a fever for which there was no cure. The spade on the end of Sam's tail gently tapped the inside of the passenger door.

"I think he like—."

"Do you want me to drop you off at Jessica's?" Dean asked louder than necessary and glared at the back of the car in front of them when Sam snorted.

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the journey home.


	28. The Only One That's Mine

_I got this idea from the song in My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, A Canterlot Wedding. I like that song far too much._

_By the way, I hope you're sitting comfortably because this one's super long._

_Warnings: too many Castiels, language, implied/attempted rape, a wedding that never happens, 19 pages of shoddy present tense writing_

* * *

><p><strong>The Only One That's Mine<strong>

* * *

><p>People had been disappearing into an old house buried in the woods miles outside a tiny town in Michigan. It's the middle of summer and the air is hot and dry and clings to everything, seeping into every corner of the motel room the Winchesters are sharing and making their T-shirts cling to their backs and their hair mat their foreheads no matter how much they crank the air conditioning. Dean is lying sprawled on his bed, too tired to even fan himself with the papers piled around him and Sam is half asleep at the tiny table, his laptop buzzing in front of him as he idly flicks a finger over the trackpad.<p>

"Where's Cas?" Dean grumbles, plucking lazily at the front of his shirt, eyes closed.

"I dunno, he's your angel." Sam mutters in reply, blinking several times to keep himself awake, "He said he went to scout the house out, right?"

"Yeah."

Sam glances at the time, "Dean that was almost two hours ago."

"Shit, really?" Dean heaves himself up on elbows to look blearily at his younger brother, "That's weird. Maybe something happened."

Sam grunts and shrugs a shoulder. Dean's brow furrows and he fumbles his cellphone from his pocket, punching the buttons with fingers that feel swollen and numb in the heat until he calls up Castiel's number. It rings once…twice…three times…four times…then there's a click and a screech of static from the earpiece that makes Dean jerk and yank the phone away briefly. Sam looks up at his brother, blinking slowly as if his eyelids are too heavy to work properly. When Dean brings the phone back to his ear, he can barely hear Cas' voice through the static,

"Dean—_ffzzzch_—house in th—_kzzzzssshhh—_ap! The rooms—_ffsshhk_—full of duplicates—_kzzzsch_—cant' get out. The house won't let me—_fffzzzsssch_—aren't working! I don't know what's doing this but you need to—_kzsch_—nd Sam stay in the motel. I will try to find a wa—_kkzzchsshh_—ean? Dean, can you hear me? Don't—_sshhzzzk_—looking for me, Dean. Please, jus—_ffzzzsch_—ean! Dean! De—_kssszzhck_—_beeeeeeeeep. Beeeeeeep. Beeeeeeeep._"

The dial tone stabs into Dean's ear and he lowers the phone, clicking it shut as he does so, and looks to Sam. His younger brother is watching him, now wide awake, having recognized that look on Dean's face.

"I'm going after Cas," Dean says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and squirming into his socks and a pair of old boots. Sam watches him carefully and then makes to stand up. Dean glares at him, "No, you're staying here. If Cas shows up again, I get the feeling he'll need some medical attention."

"Dude, he's an _angel_—."

"And he says he's stuck in a house." Dean replies hotly, stowing a gun in his thin flannel jacket and a knife in his boot, "He practically told me to make you stay here anyway." And he smirks in Sam's direction, snatching up the keys to the Impala as he heads for the door. Sam's glaring after him, though, in that bitchfacing, I'm-really-worried-about-this kind of way and Dean sighs, one hand resting on the doorknob,

"Don't worry about it, Sammy, I'll be fine. Me n' Cas'll be back before you know it."

* * *

><p>The way to the house is up a winding driveway that's shrouded in thick trees and emerges into a yard overgrown with high weeds and winding vines of prickers. The whole square plot is surrounded by the closely clustered trees and right in the middle of it all is an old, run down, two story house. The paint is peeling, mostly gone, the windows are smeared with so much grime you can't even see through them, and there is, of course, a rumor that the place is haunted.<p>

Dean parks the Impala beside the treeline, in the shade, and clambers out, making sure to lock his precious baby before wading through the waist high weeds, using his boots to stomp down any pricker vines that get in his way. The house squats like a grumpy old thing in the midst of it all, its dirty windows are lidded and diseased eyes that watch him cross the yard, the front porch a curving frown of rickety boards and cracked pillars of broken teeth. Dean tests the steps carefully with the toe of his boot before climbing up them and listening at the front door. Everything is silent save for his own breath, the sounds of an old house settling further into the ground, and the natural noises that nature tends to make.

The oldest Winchester tugs his gun from his jacket and eases the door open. Predictably, it creaks and moans on ancient hinges, opening wide enough for an average sized person to squeeze through before grinding to a halt and refusing to budge however much Dean kicks or rams into it. Finally, with a resigned sigh, Dean wedges himself through the crack and into the darkness beyond.

It's gloomy inside the crumbling house, all grays and faded blues and blacks, everything covered in dust and mold. The hallway in front of Dean is warped, the floor lilting sideways so that it's tilted crookedly and one wall buckles as it meets the ceiling. The place smalls of damp and ancient things better left forgotten, cobwebs strung from the ceiling and in the corners, the shadows creeping across the floor the only occupants. Dean sniffs and wrinkles his nose at the stench. Then he turns around to prop the door open with something…only to find that there is no door and he's looking a blank rectangle of old drywall covered in moldy wallpaper.

"Shit." The Winchester breathes and turns back to the hall, cocking his gun as he goes. The click seems horribly loud in the silence pressing itself around him. It is considerably cooler inside the house, remarkably so considering all the cracks and crevices that lined its outsides, and yet Dean can see no sign of daylight leaking into the house. All the light is cold and blue-white and dead.

Doors line the hall and Dean steps up to the nearest one, pushing it open with one hand while bringing up his gun with the other. It looks like this was once a living room, the floorboards groan as Dean moves across them, the furniture has collapsed and rotted, the fireplace is boarded up with rotted wood, and a lamp has been tipped over and crushed underfoot before being swathed in dust. Dean crosses to the windows on the far side and, grimacing, rubs his sleeve on the glass, trying to remove some of the dirt and grime. All it does is smear it around. With a sigh, he turns and finds himself face to face with Castiel.

"Cas!" He yelps in surprise, taking a step back, "Dude, fuck, didn't I tell you not to do that?"

Castiel stares at him and Dean frowns, looking his companion up and down. There's a dangerously hungry look in Cas' eye that Dean doesn't recognize, has never seen on the angel's face before. And it scares him. It's not a lustfully-hungry kind of look.

It's the kind of look he's gotten from vampires or ghouls or other meat-consuming beasties and it says he'd go great with some homemade ketchup and potato wedges.

"Cas…?" Dean curls his finger a little tighter around the trigger, lifting the gun just a little bit higher, "You okay, buddy?"

There's a familiar head tilt—no, wait, it's _definitely_ not familiar. Cas cocks his head so far to the right he's almost letting it rest on his shoulder, his neck curving at a horribly awkward angle. Then he lunges forward without a single warning, mouth opening wide, hands reaching, and Dean is so surprised that he trips backwards and rams his shoulders into the window.

Castiel leaps on him, grabbing the front of his jacket and tearing at it with his inhuman strength. Dean struggles, shouting wordlessly, and they both end up falling to the floor and sending up a cloud of dust. Castiel lifts Dean's shoulders up and slams him back down against the hardwood and Dean's skull bounces off the floor, dazing him. He blinks several times, trying to reorient himself, is dimly aware of Cas' hands tugging and yank and pushing aside his jacket, his shirt, feels hot breath on his neck, and then shouts in pain as Castiel's teeth clamp down hard on his collarbone. He pushes back, the pain clearing the fog from his brain, the heels of his boots skittering across the floor as he tries to lever the angel off of him.

With a guttural growl, Castiel pulls back and Dean takes a swing at him with a fist. Cas grabs Dean's wrist and pins it to the floor with one hand, the angel's free hand trailing down to Dean's belt. His fingertips slide underneath the hunter's shirt and then curl into the hem of his pants. Dean struggles, bucking and shouting for Cas to stop, his other hand still clutching the gun but unwilling to use it. Castiel ignores his pleas and there is a wicked grin on his face, an eager, horrid thing that it not Castiel at all. It is vulgar, and poison, and just plain wrong.

"—_full of duplicates—!"_

It clicks.

This is not his Castiel.

Whatever this house is, whatever it does, this is not his Cas. Dean knows Castiel, knows him intimately, knows him by touch, by sight, by scent, by his presence in the room.

This is not his Castiel.

And with that acknowledgment, Dean's resolve hardens. He raises his gun and presses it into this not-Cas' head. Castiel freezes at the touch of the gun, blue eyes widening, that grin slipping away as he stares down at the hunter beneath him.

A second before Dean pulls the trigger, the Not-Castiel squeezes out a fractured,

"Dean…?"

And then the gun goes off and dust and smoke and ash explode into the air. The fake Cas is gone and Dean is left panting on the dirty floor. He lies there for a moment, shaken, his gun hand trembling.

Then, swallowing thickly, he rolls to his feet, dusts himself off as best he can, and walks out of the room. He does not look back.

* * *

><p>There are doors along the walls and a flight of stairs at the end of the hallway. Dean pauses in the hall, frowning. He doesn't want to check every single door but if he doesn't, he could miss his Castiel. On the other hand, he has no idea how many fake Cas' are waiting to try and trick him. He doesn't know the rules of this house, doesn't know if the fake Cas' can leave the rooms or, if he were to shout, if they would swarm him and…and gang-bang him or something. And what was Castiel doing? What was his Cas, the real Cas, seeing? Was he trapped in a nightmare somewhere with a fake Dean? And if there was a fake Dean, then what was he doing to the real Dean's Castiel?<p>

Dean tries very hard no to think about it.

He moves off down the hall, pressing his palm against some doors and listening at them cautiously. But they were all cold, petrified wood and remained just as silent. Dean stands in the middle of the hall for a while, thinking, looking around at the doors, and then he grips his upper arm through his coat sleeve in an almost instinctual manner, as if it will tell him which direction to go. But the handprint on his arm does nothing. He's on his own.

"Well, nothing for it," Dean sighs and pushes open a door at random.

As soon as he steps over the threshold, gun once again at the ready, he sucks in a surprised breath. The room is not a half-rotten disaster; it's not even a room at all but a small, walled in garden. The sun is shining a warm and brilliant yellow overhead, there are vibrant green vines climbing the brick walls, and the place smells of freshness and newness of life. There is a fountain in the center of a small winged cherub filling a relaxing centaur's overflowing wine cup from a never-ending jug, there are rose bushes and tulips and lilies and rows of weeping hearts surrounding it, and a small stone path winds around behind the fountain which is perched in front of an impossibly large apple tree whose fruit is ripe and red and bright.

Dean glances over his shoulder and sees the rotted door sitting in the perfect brick wall, completely out of place. He licks his lips, frowning a little, and then follows the path around behind the fountain and the apple tree, his finger still on the trigger of his gun.

In the shade of the incredibly large apple tree is an intricate table of metal and glass and a matching set of chairs. On one of these chairs, the one facing towards Dean, is Castiel. He is holding a white porcelain teacup in his hands and is looking at Dean with wide blue eyes.

"Cas?" Dean asks hesitantly.

"Dean." Says Castiel and smiles fondly, "I was wondering when you would find me. Please, sit with me." He gestures to the other chair.

Dean's eyes narrow but he takes the seat, his hand still on his gun, "What is this place? Why is there a friggin' garden in the middle of a house?"

"It is Paradise." Castiel answers smoothly, taking a sip of his tea, "Sometimes the space between dimensions is thin and people can slip through accidently. That doorway back there just happens to be sitting on one. And it just so happens to lead to the Garden of Eden."

"The Garden of Eden, seriously?" Dean looks around, "Tiny garden."

"You are only seeing a portion of it." Castiel takes another drink of tea and sets his cup down on the saucer with a clink. It seems unnaturally loud and for a second Dean can't figure out why. Then he notices the silence. It's as quiet here as it was in the house; there is no bird song, no wind rustling the branches, no insect noises, nothing aside from the occasional movement from him or Castiel.

"What are you doing in here?" Dean asks. His finger has loosened on the trigger but he is still holding his gun against his leg under the table.

"Waiting for you, of course." Castiel says and he smiles that warm smile again, the one that only Dean has ever seen in their secret moments together. But it's not reaching his blue eyes, not quite. Maybe this is the real Cas and he thinks Dean is a fake one.

"Kind of quiet for the Garden of Eden." Dean comments, looking around, "There aren't even any butterflies or anything. Where are all the animals?"

"Are you hungry, Dean?" Castiel asks suddenly and reaches up into the branches of the apple tree overhead. The perfectly green leaves rustle as he disturbs them and then he withdraws his hand. Clasped against his palm is the very image of a perfect apple, the kind of apple that shows up in a kid's plastic play set, the kind of apple that the Evil Queen would give to Snow White. It is bright red and shiny, round at the top and tapering down at the bottom. Castiel rolls his fingers across it, observing it for a moment, and then holds it out to Dean.

The hunter looks at it for a moment and then takes it. The apple is heavy and smells sweet and Dean's mouth waters with smell. He brings it to his face, sniffs, and opens his mouth to take a bite when he sees Castiel watching. And of course his Castiel stares at him, it's what he does, but there's something about the way _this_ Castiel stares at him that unsettles Dean. Castiel's smiling that soft, warm smile again but, again, it's not reaching his eyes.

Dean suddenly feels like he's a small mouse being watched by a snake.

Like he's Eve about to take that bite of the forbidden fruit while Satan watches.

He sets the apple down and gets quickly to his feet. Not-Castiel watches him with a forlorn sort of expression.

"Don't go," Says Not-Cas in a sad voice, "Don't leave me here by myself, Dean. It's lonely here. I want you to stay with me forever in Paradise."

"You're not my Cas." Dean says and he leaves the Garden and the Not-Castiel behind.

* * *

><p>The next door he tries leads him into a small room where the walls are lined with mirrors and there an infinite number of Dean's stretching on forever and ever. It hurts his head to look so he squeezes his eyes shut and paws for the door handle to leave. Only it's not there anymore and when he opens his eyes again, the door has altogether vanished and he is simply standing in a room full of mirrors.<p>

But something has changed. The infinite number of Dean's have condensed; now there are four of them, one on each wall, each of them staring at him and smirking. But Dean is a hunter and he sees the differences between the four of them. He doesn't like what he sees.

"Look at him squirm," Sneers a Dean with the soulless black eyes of a demon, "He's so pathetic, so lost, no power at all."

"Ignorance." Says another Dean with a blank expression and a pair of golden wings sprouting from his back.

"Humanity." A child Dean counters, no more than twelve. He's holding a sawed off that looks awkward in his small arms.

The fourth Dean says nothing and simply stands there quietly with his arms crossed. He looks soft to the real Dean's hunter eyes, like a person who was never raised to fight evil at all.

"Who are you all?" He asks hotly, raising his weapon.

Demon Dean lets out a harsh laugh, "We're you, idiot. All your little broken pieces. I'm the piece you left in the Pit. Or rather, the piece you took with you, the piece your precious angel can't fix."

"What do you want?" Dean doesn't believe for a second that any of these reflections are pieces of him.

"To explain the rules." Says Angel Dean, "I am, by the way, the part of you that is the Righteous Man, the part of you that would have said 'yes' to Michael."

"And I'm your morality." Says Child Dean, still clutching the shotgun, "The rules are simple: Find Castiel. Find your angel, the real Cas, and you can leave."

"If I don't?"

"You'll be stuck here forever." Smirks Demon Dean.

"Constantly hounded by Castiel's who aren't really yours." Comes the flat reply from the Angel Dean.

"And tormented by the idea that the very same thing might be happening to your Castiel." Says the Child Dean.

Dean looks around at all three of them, watching him expectantly, and then turns to the fourth Dean. He is standing where the door should be, his arms still crossed, still quietly following the situation.

"And what are you?" Dean ventures, gesturing with his gun, "Which bit of me are you, huh? My sense of style? My stoic attitude? My way with women? Maybe my perky nipples…"

"None of those." The fourth Dean says in a low voice, "I am your love. I am that which you share with Sam, with Bobby, with Mary and John, with Ellen, Jo, Lisa, Cassie, and many others. You gave a piece of me to each of them." He unfolds his arms and holds out his hands like he's waiting for a hug,

"But you gave all of me to Castiel."

Demon Dean and Angel Dean start laughing and it's mocking, high and mean. The Child Dean stares at them, leaning heavily on his sawed off like he's gotten too tired to hold onto it. The fourth Dean is still holding out his hand. The real Dean takes it, almost impulsively, and feels the cold metal of the door handle beneath his fingers.

Before he leaves the room, he turns around and shoots the mirrors so they shatter. But the voices of his selves chase him out with the clattering of broken glass and even after he closes the door, he can still hear them ringing in his ears.

* * *

><p>Dean bypasses the rest of the doors in the hall and stomps towards the stairs, fuming and not a little hurt. His hand is clenched around the gun in his hand and he's so lost in his frustration, he doesn't notice his breath frosting in front of him.<p>

The floorboards creak and moan at his angry passage, bending under his heavy booted stomps. Dean doesn't care, his thoughts are elsewhere. He thinks about the Demon Dean in the mirror that sneered at him and called him pathetic and he feels an uncomfortable chill in his belly because it reminds him far too much of that year before the hell hounds came for him, when the Dean in his head screamed that he was going to become a demon. He thinks about the Angel Dean with the golden wings and the empty expression calling him ignorant and he remembers the fight in the alleyway with Castiel when he almost said yes. And then he thinks of Cas and he thinks of the way the angel says his name when he wants something, he thinks of the way that trench coat hangs from his bony shoulders, he thinks—.

The floorboards under his foot crack, splinter, and then cave beneath him. Dean flings out a hand, reaching for the edge, but more pieces break off and he's sent tumbling into a black abyss below. He loses his grip on his gun and it's gone before he can even see it fly away.

He falls down and down and then there's a flare of red that makes Dean wince and he slams into something hard. The air is hot and sulfurous, it hurts to breath, the heat pressing against him and clawing into his lungs with white-hot pokers. He blinks, rolls to his feet, and freezes.

He is in Hell.

Worse still, he is surrounded by racks full of screaming souls. They are bound by chains and meathooks, leather straps and barbed wire, some of them have needles or knives sticking from their bodies, others are simply bleeding from numerous cuts, some are so mutilated they are beyond all recognition. The air reeks with the smell of infection, of blood, of burnt flesh and hair, there is a thing mist of red, a haze over the eyes, and everything is lit in a throbbing, dull crimson glow.

Dean feels sick. And then he has to double over and dry heave because he also feels like he's home.

He wipes spittle from his chin and spits onto the floor, looking around for a way out. This cannot really be Hell, it has to be another room in the house, but for Dean it seems very real. This is Hell as he remembers it, right down to the tacky blood on the floor that clings to the bottom of his boots like old chewing gum. The screaming of the souls on the racks are paper thing metallic needles in his ears and spins on the spot, not knowing which way to turn, afraid to get to close to any of the racks, afraid that if he takes one step away from this spot then he will slid back into his old persona and pick up the knife and take to the bodies laid out before him.

Then he hears a cry that he recognizes, a pitiful sound screaming along with the rest, but this one is calling his name.

It's Castiel's voice.

Dean's running through the racks before he realizes what he's doing. He screeches to a halt, muscles seizing, breath stopping in his throat, bile rising in his stomach because he's close, so close, to the souls and they're right there and he's acutely aware of the knife in his boot and the best place to slice and he's shaking now, he can't stop it, he's going to—

"Deeeaaannnn!"

The hunter shudders and takes off running again, telling himself that the tears in his eyes are from the stench. He weaves through the countless racks and the howling souls, following the sound of Castiel's cries until he comes to a spot relatively clear of the racks. They form a circle around one and strapped to it, naked and scarred, is Cas. His skin is pale and it makes the angel banishing sigil on his stomach appear all the more red and inflamed in the gloom of the Pit. His wrists and ankles are nearly shredded from the barbed wire that has ripped into them, pinning him to the table, there are lacerations on his arms, and tears streaking his bloodied face. Dean's heart clenches into the size of pea as he stumbles to a halt beside the ruined angel.

"Cas! Cas, it's me! It's Dean!"

"Dean, help me!" The angel moans, back arching against the rack, his frame quivering as the barbed wire bit into his flesh, "Please, get me out of here! I don't want to be here!"

"Hold still, Cas, just hold on!" Dean tugs the blade from his boot, keeping one hand on Castiel's shoulder, "I'll cut you free! Just hold on, buddy, I'm here for you! I'll get you out of here! I'll get us both out of here!"

"No!" Castiel gasps as Dean starts cutting away the barbed wire on the angel's wrist, "No, Dean, you don't understand…"

Dean manages to free one of Castiel wrists and moves around to work on the other, "What don't I understand?"

"Only one of us can leave."

The knife snicks through a strand of wire as Dean pulls back, gaping at Castiel. The angel is looking at him pleadingly, begging Dean to take him away from the Pit, "What do you mean only one of us can leave?"

"When you cut me free," Castiel breathes, "You will take my place on the rack. Please Dean," His voice cracks and he whimpers, "Please take me away from here. I'm an angel, I don't belong here. Please, please, I want out. Take my place, Dean, _please_!"

Dean takes another step away from the rack, shaking his head. Castiel reaches towards him with his one free hand and goddamn it if Dean doesn't want to run back to him and clasp his hand and promise him that everything will be all right. But this is not his Castiel; once again the house has tried to trick him. He would free his Castiel from the rack and he knew that his Cas would beg to be freed…but not if it meant Dean was to take his place. Cas had gone through Hell, literally, to raise Dean from Perdition and he would never wish Dean back into the Pit.

"Dean!" The Not-Castiel pleads, still reaching for him with a shaking hand, "Dean, please don't leave me here like this! Dean! Take my place, I can't do this anymore!" He trembles and a fresh wave of tears run down his cheeks, "_Please_ Dean! Dean! Don't leave me!"

The barbed wire suddenly comes to life and wraps itself around the Not-Castiel's wrist, pulling him back down to the rack again. Not-Castiel lets out a heart-breaking cry and writhes against the hold, screaming Dean's name, begging him to take his place, tears and blood spilling own the sides of the rack. Dean feels a twist in his gut, a horrible wrenching deep inside him that makes him ache as he turns around and walks away.

Not-Castiel's screams follow him, echoing above the rest of the cries of the souls around him as Dean runs through Hell, trying to find a way out.

* * *

><p>Dean runs until his shirt sticks to his front and his back, until his breath is a raspy scrape of stinging gravel in his throat, until his feet feel as if they are made of cement bricks, until he has to stagger to a halt and wheeze his heart back into a normal rhythm.<p>

The heat of this fake Hell is unbearable. Dean peels off his jacket, leaving him only in his T-shirt, and is about to tie it around his waist when there's a sound behind him. He drops his jacket and spins around, whipping his knife up but there's no one there. He has long since left the garden of racks behind and is now standing in a forest of twisted trees made of rusted metal and jagged obsidian, the ground beneath his boots lumpy with broken bits of human bone. The sky is such a dark crimson it is almost black and that red mist still clings to everything. The air smells of smog and pollution, of garbage and roadkill and fires burning in the distance.

Tense and feeling all sorts of things that just make a mess in his head, he slowly turns to retrieve the thin flannel covering. Only someone has picked it up already.

Castiel is standing a few feet away, his face pressed into Dean's jacket and inhaling, his eyes closed in some sort of ecstasy as he takes in Dean's scent. Dean stares at him, his knife still clenched in his hand. He doesn't know what to trust.

"Dean…" Sighs Castiel, his eyes still closed as he rubs his cheek into the thin flannel material, "Dean, Dean, Dean, I have been waiting for you. What took you so long to find me?"

"I…Cas?" Dean says uncertainly, "Is that really you?"

"You're hurting my feelings, Dean." Castiel says, "How can you not recognize me?" He opens his eyes and they are completely black, dark pits devoid of emotion.

"Demon." Dean spits and steps backwards.

"I can show you the best time you have ever had." Demon Castiel whispers into Dean's jacket, "Stay here with me, Dean. Just you and me in Hell forever."

"No." Dean growls and dives into the trees, running from this corrupted Castiel. For a while, he feels the demon's eyes on his back and then the metal and stone forest closes in around him and he's alone. He keeps running for a while until his body starts to protest and he has to slow down to a walk. His legs ache, his belly is empty, and he's covered in sweat and smears of blood.

He keeps walking.

The metal and obsidian trees start to take on angular shapes, become more square and coiling around one another as they lean closer and closer to the ground. Eventually, Dean comes to a clearing where there is a group of trees tangled together and reaching up into the sky, creating a perfect set of metal and rock stairs.

Dean doesn't even look over his shoulder as he begins to climb.

* * *

><p>When Dean walks through the door in the sky and steps back into the hallway of the old house, he's instantly struck with a wave of cold that makes goosebumps erupt over his exposed skin and his teeth clatter in his mouth. He wraps his arms around himself and looks around for where to go next, his breath misting in the air in front of him.<p>

He heads for the stairs again because he's tired of the ground floor and logic says that warm air rises. But, if anything, it's even colder on the second floor. There's frost seeping into the crevices between the wooden slats, he's shivering so hard he thinks maybe his eyeballs are going to rattle straight out of his skull, and he really wishes he hadn't taken off his jacket.

There are more doors on the second floor and Dean's fed up and desperate. All he wants to do is find his Castiel, the real Castiel, and get back to the motel, the heat of which now seems like a far away dream. He kicks open the first door he comes to, steps through, and instantly wonders why there's a kitchen on the second floor.

The kitchen is warmth but it is a warmth that stings into Dean's skin, prickling it with bursts of pins and needle heat. There is pleasant golden sunlight streaming in through the windows, lighting up the polish granite counter tops and the stainless steel kitchen hardware. There's a radio playing Coldplay quietly into the morning light and then there's Castiel. He is wearing boxers—_Dean's_ boxers, the hunter recognizes the pair—and a rumpled white T-shirt over which he's tied a bright blue apron. His hair is bed tousled and he's humming along with "Yellow" as it plays from the radio.

Dean tries to say the angel's name but the cold has dried his throat and all he manages is a cracked whimpering sort of noise.

But Castiel hears it and turns around and he smiles when he sees Dean standing inside the door, "Dean. It's about time. Would you like something to eat?"

Dean swallows and manages to ask, "Are you my Castiel?"

Castiel tilts his head to the side and sets down the spatula in his hand. He crosses the kitchen to stand in front of Dean and rests his hands on Dean's shoulders, rubbing his palms across the Winchester's arms to try and warm him up, "I am anything you want me to be."

"I just want my Cas…" Dean groans and lets his head rest on Castiel's shoulder, "I just want to go home."

"Shhh," Castiel smooths a hand through Dean's hair, whispering lightly in his ear, "I'm here for you, Dean. I have been and always will be. And wherever I am is your home."

Dean sucks in a breath to answer but pauses, breathes out against Castiel's neck, breathes in again and says,

"Then where are you?"

He pushes Not-Castiel away. He knows this is not his Cas because this fake does not smell of virgin mountain snow, of lightning storms, of cheap shampoo and gun powder, of Dean's skin and Dean's clothes.

Not-Castiel looks at him with a hurt expression, "I am here, Dean. Don't you want to stay with me? I can cook your favorite foods. I can clean up for you. I can do whatever you want me to do."

"But you can't be _my Cas_." Dean says and he backs out of the room, despite the way his stomach is growling after the smell of cooking food. As soon as he shuts the door, the warmth is gone and the cold seeps back into his limbs, worse than before, piercing him right into his belly and making him cringe.

He thinks he might freeze to death before he finds the real Castiel.

* * *

><p>Dean checks room after room after room and finds dozens of Castiels.<p>

None of them are his.

He finds a room that opens into a fake Heaven where a soldier Castiel waited to make him an angel. He's met a vampire Castiel, a Castiel willing to murder Sam to let them be together, a cannibal Castiel, and even a Castiel who just wants to kill him. Dean loses his knife in that fight.

Now he's weaponless and freezing and he doesn't know if he's any closer to find his Cas or not. He fumbles with the frost covered handle of another door and manages to get it open, wincing at the pain in his stiff fingers; he thinks it might be frost bite. Beyond the door is a sunny garden with rows of chairs and a rose entwined arch under which stand Castiel in a pristine black tux, holding a bouquet of flowers. He looks around as Dean opens the door and there's a wide smile on his face. There's also a preacher standing at the alter.

Dean nearly chokes and quickly closes the door. That was not his Castiel. He and Cas had spoken in length about the concept of marriage and had never really finished a conversation on it. Angel culture and human culture differed greatly.

Almost desperate and ready to curl into a corner and let himself freeze, Dean tries the door at the end of the hall on the top floor. When he opens it, he is greeted with dusty old bedroom that matches the rest of the house in its ruin and state of decay. Curled up on the old, rotting four poster bed, shivering with his coat wrapped tightly around him is Castiel. Dean races across the room and leaps onto the bed, coiling his arms around Cas' shivering form and drawing him close, trying to share what little body heat he has. He presses his lips into the back of the angel's neck, trying to get him to respond.

"Cas?" He whispers, "Castiel? It's Dean."

"It is cold, Dean." Castiel says and rolls around so that he is facing Dean, tucking his head under Dean's chin and pressing his frozen fingers into Dean's chest, "It is so very cold."

"I know," Dean says, holding Castiel tighter against him, "It's okay, I found you so it's all cool. Er, you know what I mean." He kisses Cas' hair and finds it stiff and frozen, "We'll warm up and then we can leave and get back to the motel and get out of this town."

"I do not want to leave." Castiel says, tilting his head back to stare at Dean. His eyes are chips of ice as he encircles his arms around Dean, "I want to stay here with you forever, just the two of us, keeping each other warm for eternity."

Too late Dean realizes he has made a mistake. Castiel is an angel, he does not feel temperature changes, he would not have been affected by the cold like Dean is. The eldest Winchester tries to pull away but this Not-Cas is holding onto him tightly. Dean struggles, thrashing in Not-Castiel's grip, kicking his boots across the rotted, frost coated blankets beneath them, but the fake does not relent. He mashes his mouth against Dean's, forcing the man to kiss him, worms his tongue into Dean's mouth and Dean feels as though someone has shoved liquid nitrogen into his mouth. He tries to breath and it aches deep in his lungs so he tries to curl up to conserve his warmth.

Not-Castiel is having none of it. He flips around, twists so that he is pinning Dean to the bed, holding the hunter's wrists over his head with one hand while the other works off Dean's belt. Dean growls and curses, trying to lever this fake Castiel off of him, but it's not working. Not-Castiel unzips Dean's jeans, sitting on his thighs so he's helpless to move, and slides icicle cold fingers into Dean's boxers. The Winchester bucks and automatically tries to shrink away but Not-Castiel grabs a hold of him and starts massaging him with his fingers. Dean trembles, partly out of the pleasure of it, partly from the cold, but mostly because he's furious. This pathetic excuse for a fake has no right to even try.

Fury bolsters Dean's adrenaline and he brings one leg up sharply, upending the Not-Castiel so that he tips sideways. This loosens the fake Castiel's grip and Dean manages to yank his hands free, bringing up a fist to smash it into Not-Castiel's temple. They both fall sideways off of the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud, and Dean scrambles away from the fake, numb fingers fumbling to do up his pants.

Dean doesn't think he's ever been this angry, not in a long time anyway. He brings up his foot and smashes the heel of his heavy boot into Not-Castiel's stomach as hard as he can. Then he does it again. And again. Then he reaches down and grabs the fake by the collar hoisting him up so he can punch him in the face over and over and over again until the shirt in his grasp tears and sends Not-Castiel falling backwards into a wall. Dean glares at him but the fake does not get up.

The cold seeps back in through the chinks in his angry armor and drags ice chips through his joints, making them ache. It seems even colder than it did before. Far too cold. No human being could ever last in this kind of cold. Dean's almost forgotten that it's summer outside this house.

He needs to find Cas. It's the only thought on his mind as he stumbles out of the room.

* * *

><p>Dean's tired.<p>

He's cold, he's hungry, he's lost, he's frustrated, and—goddamn it but he's lonely.

The Winchester is standing at the top of the stairs on the second floor, his hands clenched over his bare arms, his shoulders hunched, shivering so badly he can hardly think straight.

"What do you want from me!" He shouts into the quiet of the house, a cloud bursting between his lips with the words, "Just give me back my Cas! You're not going to trick me with these fakes! I know _my_ Castiel and I want him _back_! You'd better give him up or I swear I'll burn this fucking place to the ground!"

No one answers him.

With a frustrated scream, Dean kicks at the wall beside him. It yields no result. The overpowering urge to destroy something is making his blood boil hot, pushing back the cold again. He takes a swing at the rotting railing of the staircase and knocks one of the poles off. Snatching up, ignoring the icy splinters that stab into his palms, he swings it around, smashing it into the steps and the walls as he stomps down the stairs. He slams it into the doors he passes, scrapes it along the walls, and bases it into the empty space where the front door should be until the old wooden pillar snaps off in his hands and spins away across the floor.

Dean presses his forehead against the wall as the anger seeps away and the cold settles in once more. The hunter wraps his arms around himself and leans back against the wall, staring down the hallway at all the doors and the stairs and crooked floor and the buckled ceiling and the whole hopeless situation stretching out before him.

"Cas…" He says, teeth chattering so much that the name is barely audible, "Where _are_ you?"

He wants to stay there, leaning against the wall, letting the frost creep over him and molding him into the house because he's so fucking tired and upset he can't take it anymore. He thinks about the people who have disappeared into the house and wonders if this is what happened to them. Did they try to find a way out and only ran into twisted and macabre versions of the people they thought they knew? Did they defy those fakes over and over again like Dean until they had lost all hope and given up, either to the cold or to one of the fakes? What was this place? What did it want?

Dean shudders, both from the cold and from the fear of just disappearing forever into a house where no one will ever find him.

The Winchester pushes himself off the wall and stumbles down the hall again, running his sore hands over the doors as he passes them, murmuring Castiel's name over and over and over again as if doing so will finally lead him in the right direction. He just wants his Castiel. He wants to hold his Cas, feel the heat of Heaven's fire against his skin as it leaks through every pore in Cas' body, he wants to press his lips to Castiel's and play with his tongue, he wants to touch Cas in all the ways he knows Cas likes, he wants to force the angel to make all those desperate little noises that make Dean want to throw him onto a bed and take him.

He just wants Castiel.

Out of sheer hopelessness and the desperate desire for his angel, Dean tries another, swearing to himself that it's going to be the last door he tries. He just doesn't have the energy anymore.

The room inside is just as rotted as the rest of the house, frost clinging to the rotted curtains on the window and making them stiff like cardboard. Icicles are dangling from the cracked and crooked chandelier on the ceiling, the rug on the rotting hardwood is eaten through and patched with bits of ice, the fireplace against one wall has collapsed into a pile of rubble, there is a bookcase that has fallen to the floor and cracked in half, and the only other thing in the room is a couch so old the back has rotted off.

But Dean is not paying attention to the state of the room, only to the room's occupant.

It is Castiel. Or _a_ Castiel, he does not know if it is his.

But the oldest Winchester steps inside and gently closes the door behind him. The Castiel on the couch appears to be asleep but his hands are tied above his head with frozen rope, hooked to a metal stake stabbed into the rotting fabric of the couch. His shoes are missing, as well as his socks, and his feet are in the same predicament as his hands, except that his legs are spread apart, each ankle staked down individually. Castiel is still wearing his stupid trench coat and dress clothes but the shirt has been torn open and his tie is dangling loosely around his neck. His pants are pushed down to his knees and his boxers are rumpled and tacky looking.

Dean swallows a mouthful of curses and frozen air and pads carefully across the room to this Castiel. If this is not his Cas, then Dean thinks he might fall over and die of despair.

"Castiel?" He asks, leaning over the rotted couch. There is no breath coming from the angel's mouth, "Hey, Castiel?"

"Please…" Castiel breathes in a tired sort of way and Dean is instantly on guard, "I can't…no more, Dean, please, no more…this body is tired…"

Dean feels in ache in his chest but he has no idea if it has anything to do with the cold or if it's the terrible weariness in Castiel's voice. He can't help but drop a hand on the angel's shoulder, running a thumb over Cas' collarbone in a comforting sort of way. Castiel's eyelids flutter and then the bluest blue that ever existed it looking at Dean's face with a wary recognition.

"You are insatiable." He whispers and this time there is a puff of steam from between his dry lips.

The words slip out before Dean can stop them, "Are you my Cas?"

"I said I would be whatever you wanted."

"I don't want anything but you." Dean says and the words sound stupid. He feels pins and needles creep across his face and realizes that he's blushing.

"Dean?" And there's a way that Castiel says his name that makes Dean _know_ this is his Cas and that Castiel has been going through the same thing as Dean. Only he gave in and let the house have its way with him.

"What did he do to you?" Dean growls, cursing his fingers because they can't seem to remember how to untie knots and keep slipping over the rope binding Cas to the couch.

"I told you not to come after me…" Castiel breathes, and he's tracking Dean's movement.

"Don't care." Dean rattles out a breath that seems as cold as the air around him. He's pressing closer and closer to Cas and the heat the angel radiates, trying to warm himself up. But cold feels as though it has seeped into his very core and he's so tired, he's so very, very tired.

"Don't close your eyes." He hears Castiel say and jerks because he hadn't even realized that he was drifting off. He shakes himself and picks at the rope until it finally falls away. Castiel sits up, rubs his wrists, and reaches down to quickly undo the knots at his ankles. Dean is staring with half-lidded eyes at where Cas' pants are bunched at his knees.

"Cas, did he—"

"I am all right, Dean." Castiel says flatly and swings his legs over the edge of the couch, getting to his feet and pulling up his slacks. He quickly does up the buttons, fumbles with his shirt for a moment and finally gives it up for a loss, there are too many buttons missing. Dean is shivering again, choking on his own breath it's so cold, but he's watching Cas very carefully, just to be sure.

Castiel's fingers are deft but have an awkward unfamiliarity about them as he tries to tighten his tie, a crease appears between his eyebrows as he fights with the fabric, and there's a flicker in his blue eyes that says he's watching Dean watching him. Dean feels the floor tilt underneath him—backwards, forward, backwards, forwards—and realizes that it's him; he's swaying on his feet.

Hands as hot as a furnace grab his shoulders and Dean hisses in pain. Something warm is wrapped around him and he blinks, trying to focus through a haze of cold. It's Castiel's trench coat. Cas has an arm around Dean's shoulders, supporting him easily, and his other hand is running over Dean's arms, his chest, his neck, his face, his leg, checking for injuries. His fingertips brush the handprint mark beneath the sleeve of the hunter's shirt and an electric tingle makes Dean quiver. Cas pauses in his study and then leans forward and gently kisses the corner of Dean's mouth, then his chin, then his neck, and then gently mouths his collarbone before pulling back. It burns, a streak of fire down his skin, but Dean is pleased with it.

This is his Castiel.

"Cas…" He croaks, one hand coming up to press against the angel's chest, "You're such an…idiot."

"No," Castiel insists, "You are. Come on, we're getting out of here."

"Tired…" Dean's not even aware that he said the word.

Those blue eyes stare at him for a moment and then, without warning, Cas has swept Dean up into his arms bridal style and is carrying him out the door of the room. Dean wants to make some crack about marriage and thresholds but the words get jumbled up and all he can manage is a weak chuckle. Cas glances at him and there is a smile in his eyes that doesn't appear on his face that says he understands. Dean pushes his face into Cas' shoulder and takes a deep breath of the angel's scent, shivering as his cold body clashes with the raging heat of Castiel's, not caring about the burning sensation boiling across his skin because this is _his Castiel_.

Dean is dimly aware of the creak of a door and then a rolling wave of heat that makes him whimper, the sunlight accompanying it even worse because it burns through his closed eyelids. Castiel sets him down, leans him against something hot and metallic and Dean smells rubber and oil and motor parts that have been sitting in the sun and sighs because this is his baby and they're outside and they're out of the house and it's _over_.

A hand digging briefly in his pocket makes him open his eyes a little, squinting against the sunlight. Castiel rifles through his jeans, finds the Impala's keys and pops the trunk. Dean watches him in a daze, feeling flushed with heat and still frozen at the same time. Cas pulls a jug of holy oil from the trunk, walks up to the house, and pours it across the porch in a complicated pattern. Then he spreads his wings and lifts into the air to pour it over the caving roof, down the crumbling chimney, and splash it across the walls. The colors and lights in his wings flare and sparkle in the air, catching beams of sunlight and making them flare golden.

The snap of a lighter and the house whooses up in flames, the tongues of orange and red lapping eagerly at the old rotted wood. Castiel turns his back on the poison house, pulling his wings in as he does so. But even in his half frozen, dazed state, Dean does not forget the image of Castiel standing in front of that roaring flame, the firelight dancing through his translucent, many colored wings, the feathers bending and refracting the light into a cascade of wordless wonderment.

Then Castiel is bundling Dean into the backseat of the Impala and Dean wants to say that Cas doesn't know how to drive but apparently the angel has been learning behind Dean's back because he yanks the wheel around and speeds them down the driveway.

"Don't fall asleep, Dean." He calls into the backseat, "Don't fall asleep, I am taking you to a hospital and then I will get Sam. Dean. Dean! Dean, don't fall asleep! Dean!"

But Dean does. He closes his eyes and tips backwards and falls into blackness.

And when he wakes up in the hospital, stuffed with tubes and covered in too many blankets, Castiel is curled in the bed beside him and Sam is in snoring in a chair at his bedside.

Cas brushes his fingers through Dean's hair and traces a finger down Dean's earlobe, "How did you know it was me? How did you know I was your Castiel?"

Dean smirks and it feels good so he grins,

"How did you know I was your Dean?"


End file.
